IN  THE   MOUNTAINS 


IN   THE    MOUNTAINS 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW    YORK 

DOUBLE  DAY,   PAGE    &    COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY 
DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &  COMPANY 

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IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 


July  %2nd. 

I  want  to  be  quiet  now. 

I  crawled  up  here  this  morning  from  the 
valley  like  a  sick  ant,  struggled  up  to  the 
little  house  on  the  mountain  side  that  I 
haven't  seen  since  the  first  August  of  the 
war,  and  dropped  down  on  the  grass  outside 
it,  too  tired  even  to  be  able  to  thank  God  that 
I  had  got  home. 

Here  I  am  once  more,  come  back  alone 
to  the  house  that  used  to  be  so  full  of  happy 
life  that  its  little  wooden  sides  nearly  burst 
with  the  sound  of  it.  I  never  could  have 
dreamed  that  I  would  come  back  to  it 
alone.  Five  years  ago,  how  rich  I  was  in 
love;  now  how  poor,  how  stripped  of  all 
I  had.  Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing 
matters.  I'm  too  tired.  I  want  to  be  quiet 
now.  Till  I'm  not  so  tired.  If  only  I  can 
be  quiet.  .  .  . 

3 


4  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

July  23rd. 

Yesterday  all  day  long  I  lay  on  the  grass 
in  front  of  the  door  and  watched  the  white 
clouds  slowly  passing  one  after  the  other  at 
long,  lazy  intervals  over  the  tops  of  the 
delphiniums — the  row  of  delphiniums  I 
planted  all  those  years  ago.  I  didn't  think 
of  anything;  I  just  lay  there  in  the  hot  sun, 
blinking  up  and  counting  the  intervals  be- 
tween one  spike  being  reached  and  the  next. 
I  was  conscious  of  the  colour  of  the  del- 
phiniums, jabbing  up  stark  into  the  sky,  and 
of  how  blue  they  were;  and  yet  not  so  blue, 
so  deeply  and  radiantly  blue,  as  the  sky. 
Behind  them  was  the  great  basin  of  space 
filled  with  that  other  blue  of  the  air,  that 
lovely  blue  with  violet  shades  in  it;  for  the 
mountain  I  am  on  drops  sharply  away  from 
the  edge  of  my  tiny  terrace-garden,  and  the 
whole  of  the  space  between  it  and  the  moun- 
tains opposite  brims  all  day  long  with  blue 
and  violet  light.  At  night  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  looks  like  water,  and  the  lamps  in  the 
little  town  lying  along  it  like  quivering  re- 
flections of  the  stars. 

I  wonder  why  I  write  about  these  things. 
As  if  I  didn't  know  them!  Why  do  I  tell 
myself  in  writing  what  I  already  so  well 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  5 

know?  Don't  I  know  about  the  mountain, 
and  the  brimming  cup  of  blue  light?  It  is 
because,  I  suppose,  it's  lonely  to  stay  inside 
oneself.  One  has  to  come  out  and  talk. 
And  if  there  is  no  one  to  talk  to  one  imagines 
someone  —  as  though  one  were  writing  a 
letter  to  somebody  who  loves  one,  and  who 
will  want  to  know,  with  the  sweet  eagerness 
and  solicitude  of  love,  what  one  does  and  what 
the  place  one  is  in  looks  like.  It  makes  one 
feel  less  lonely  to  think  like  this  —  to  write  it 
down,  as  if  to  one's  friend  who  cares.  For 
I'm  afraid  of  loneliness;  shiveringly,  terribly 
afraid.  I  don't  mean  the  ordinary  physical 
loneliness,  for  here  I  am,  deliberately  trav- 
elled away  from  London  to  get  to  it,  to  its 
spaciousness  and  healing.  I  mean  that  awful 
loneliness  of  spirit  that  is  the  ultimate 
tragedy  of  life.  When  you've  got  to  that, 
really  reached  it,  without  hope,  without 
escape,  you  die.  You  just  can't  bear  it,  and 
ou  die. 


July  2 

It's  queer  the  urge  one  has  to  express 
oneself,  to  get  one's  self  into  words.  If  I 
weren't  alone  I  wouldn't  write,  of  course,  I 
would  talk.  But  nearly  everything  I  wanted 


6  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

to  say  would  be  things  I  couldn't  say.  Not 
unless  it  was  to  some  wonderful,  perfect, 
all-understanding  listener — the  sort  one  used 
to  imagine  God  was  in  the  days  when  one 
said  prayers.  Not  quite  like  God  though, 
either,  for  this  listener  would  sometimes  say 
something  kind  and  gentle,  and  sometimes 
stroke  one's  hand  a  little  to  show  that  he 
understood.  Physically,  it  is  most  blessed 
to  be  alone.  After  all  that  has  happened,  it 
is  most  blessed.  Perhaps  I  shall  grow  well 
here,  alone.  Perhaps  just  sitting  on  these 
honey-scented  grass  slopes  will  gradually 
heal  me.  I'll  sit  and  lick  my  wounds.  I  do 
so  dreadfully  wrant  to  get  mended!  I  do  so 
dreadfully  want  to  get  back  to  confidence  in 
goodness. 

July  %5th. 

For  three  days  now  I've  done  nothing  but 
lie  in  the  sun,  except  \vhen  meals  are  put  in 
the  open  doorway  for  me.  Then  I  get  up 
reluctantly,  like  some  sleepy  animal,  and  go 
and  eat  them  and  come  out  again. 

In  the  evening  it  is  too  cold  and  dewy  here 
for  the  grass,  so  I  drag  a  deep  chair  into  the 
doorway  and  sit  and  stare  at  the  darken- 
ing sky  and  the  brightening  stars.  At  ten 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  7 

o'clock  Antoine,  the  man  of  all  work  who  has 
looked  after  the  house  in  its  years  of  silence 
during  the  war,  shuts  up  everything  except 
this  door  and  withdraws  to  his  own  room  and 
his  wife;  and  presently  I  go  in,  too,  bolting 
the  door  behind  me,  though  there  is  nothing 
really  to  shut  out  except  the  great  night,  and 
I  creep  upstairs  and  fall  asleep  the  minute 
I'm  in  bed.  Indeed,  I  don't  think  I'm  much 
more  awake  in  the  day  than  in  the  night. 
I'm  so  tired  that  I  want  to  sleep  and  sleep; 
for  years  and  years;  for  ever  and  ever. 

There  was  no  unpacking  to  do.  Everything 
was  here  as  I  left  it  five  years  ago.  We  only 
took,  five  years  ago,  what  each  could  carry, 
waving  good-bye  to  the  house  at  the  bend  of 
the  path  and  calling  to  it  as  the  German 
soldiers  called  to  their  disappearing  homes, 
"Back  for  Christmas!"  So  that  I  came  again 
to  it  with  only  what  I  could  carry,  and  had 
nothing  to  unpack.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to 
drop  my  little  bag  on  the  first  chair  I  found 
and  myself  on  to  the  grass,  and  in  that  posi- 
tion we  both  stayed  till  bedtime. 

Antoine  is  surprised  at  nothing.  He  usedn't 
to  be  surprised  at  my  gaiety,  which  yet  might 
well  have  seemed  to  him,  accustomed  to  the 
sobriety  of  the  peasant  women  here,  excessive; 


8  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  nor  is  he  now  surprised  at  ray  silence.  He 
has  made  a  few  inquiries  as  to  the  health  and 
whereabouts  of  the  other  members  of  that 
confident  group  that  waved  good-byes  five 
years  ago,  and  showed  no  surprise  when  the 
answer,  at  nearly  every  name,  was  "Dead." 
He  has  married  since  I  went  away,  and  hasn't 
a  single  one  of  the  five  children  he  might  have 
had,  and  he  doesn't  seem  surprised  at  that, 
either.  I  am.  I  imagined  the  house,  while 
I  was  away,  getting  steadily  fuller,  and  used 
to  think  that  when  I  came  back  I  would  find 
little  Swiss  babies  scattered  all  over  it;  for, 
after  all,  there  quite  well  might  have  been 
ten,  supposing  Antoine  had  happened  to  pos- 
sess a  natural  facility  in  twins. 

July  26tk. 

The  silence  here  is  astonishing.  There  are 
hardly  any  birds.  There  is  hardly  any  wind, 
so  that  the  leaves  are  very  still  and  the  grass 
scarcely  stirs.  The  crickets  are  busy,  and 
the  sound  of  the  bells  on  distant  cows  pas- 
turing higher  up  on  the  mountains  floats 
down  to  me,  but  else  there  is  nothing  but  a 
great,  sun-flooded  silence. 

When  I  left  London  it  was  raining.  The 
Peace  Day  flags,  still  hanging  along  the 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  9 

streets,  drooped  heavy  with  wet  in  what  might 
have  been  November  air,  it  was  so  dank  and 
gloomy.  I  was  prepared  to  arrive  here  in 
one  of  the  mountain  mists  that  settle  down  on 
one  sometimes  for  days — vast  wet  stretches 
of  gray  stuff  like  some  cold,  sodden  blanket, 
muffling  one  away  from  the  mountains  op- 
posite, and  the  valley,  and  the  sun.  Instead 
I  found  summer:  beautiful  clear  summer, 
fresh  arid  warm  together  as  only  summer  up 
on  these  honey-scented  slopes  can  be,  with 
the  peasants  beginning  to  cut  the  grass — for 
things  happen  a  month  later  here  than  down 
in  the  valley,  and  if  you  climb  higher  you  can 
catch  up  June,  and  by  climbing  higher  and 
higher  you  can  climb,  if  you  want  to,  right 
back  into  the  spring.  But  you  don't  want  to 
if  you're  me.  You  don't  want  to  do  any- 
thing but  stay  quiet  where  you  are. 

July  27th. 

If  only  I  don't  think — if  only  I  don't  think 
and  remember — how  can  I  not  get  well  again 
here  in  the  beauty  and  the  gentleness? 
There's  all  next  month,  and  September,  and 
perhaps  October,  too,  may  be  warm  and  golden. 
After  that  I  must  go  back,  because  the 
weather  in  this  high  place  while  it  is  changing 


10  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

A 
from  the  calms  of  autumn  to  the  calms  of 

the  exquisite  alpine  winter  is  a  disagreea- 
ble, daunting  thing.  But  I  have  two  whole 
months;  perhaps  three.  Surely  I'll  be 
stronger,  tougher,  by  then?  Surely  I'll  at 
least  be  better?  I  couldn't  face  the  winter 
in  London  if  this  desperate  darkness  and 
distrust  of  life  is  still  in  my  soul.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  my  soul.  I  hate  to. 
But  what  else  am  I  to  call  the  innermost  Me, 
the  thing  that  has  had  such  wounds,  that  is 
so  much  hurt  and  has  grown  so  dim  that  I'm 
in  terror  lest  it  should  give  up  and  go  under, 
go  quite  out,  and  leave  me  alone  in  the  dark? 


July 

It  is  dreadful  to  be  so  much  like  Job. 
Like  him  I've  been  extraordinarily  stripped 
of  all  that  made  life  lovely.  Like  him  I've 
lost,  in  a  time  that  is  very  short  to  have  been 
packed  so  full  of  disasters,  nearly  everything 
I  loved.  And  it  wrasn't  only  the  war.  The 
war  passed  over  me,  as  it  did  over  everybody, 
like  some  awful  cyclone,  flattening  out  hope 
and  fruitfulness,  leaving  blood  and  ruins 
behind  it;  but  it  wasn't  only  that.  In  the 
losses  of  the  war,  in  the  anguish  of  losing  one's 
friends,  there  was  the  grisly  comfort  of 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  11 

companionship  in  grief;  but  beyond  and 
besides  that  life  has  been  devastated  for  me. 
I  do  feel  like  Job,  and  I  can't  bear  it.  It  is  so 
humiliating,  being  so  much  stricken.  I  feel 
ridiculous  as  well  as  wretched;  as  if  some- 
body had  taken  my  face  and  rubbed  it  in 
dust. 

And  still,  like  Job,  I  cling  on  to  what  I  can 
of  trust  in  goodness,  for  if  I  let  that  go  I 
know  there  would  be  nothing  left  but  death. 

July  29th. 

Oh,  what  is  all  this  talk  of  death?  To-day 
I  suddenly  noticed  that  each  day  since  I've 
been  here  what  I've  written  down  has  been  a 
whine,  and  that  each  day  while  I  whined  I 
was  in  fact  being  wrapped  round  by  beautiful 
things,  as  safe  and  as  perfectly  cared  for 
really  as  a  baby  fortunate  enough  to  have  been 
born  into  the  right  sort  of  family.  Oughtn't 
I  to  be  ashamed?  Of  course  I  ought;  and 
so  I  am.  For,  looking  at  the  hours,  each 
hour  as  I  get  to  it,  they  are  all  good.  Why 
should  I  spoil  them,  the  ones  I'm  at  now,  by 
the  vivid  remembrance,  the  aching  misery, 
of  those  black  ones  behind  me?  They, 
anyhow,  are  done  with;  and  the  ones  I  have 
got  to  now  are  plainly  good.  And  as  for  Job 


12  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

who  so  much  haunted  me  yesterday,  I  can't 
really  be  completely  like  him,  for  at  least 
I've  not  yet  had  to  take  a  potsherd  and  sit 
down  somewhere  and  scrape.  But  perhaps 
I  had  better  touch  wood  over  that,  for  one 
has  to  keep  these  days  a  wary  eye  on 
God. 

Mrs.  Antoine,  small  and  twenty-five,  who 
has  been  provided  by  Antoine,  that  expert 
in  dodging  inconveniences,  with  a  churn 
suited  to  her  size  out  of  which  she  produces 
little  pats  of  butter  suited  to  my  size  every 
day,  Switzerland  not  having  any  butter  in  it 
at  all  for  sale — Mrs.  Antoine  looked  at  me 
to-day  when  she  brought  out  food  at  dinner 
time,  and  catching  my  eye  she  smiled  at  me, 
and  so  I  smiled  at  her,  and  instantly  she 
began  to  talk. 

Up  to  now  she  has  crept  about  softly  on 
the  tips  of  her  toes  as  if  she  were  afraid  of 
waking  me,  and  I  had  supposed  it  to  be  her 
usual  fashion  of  moving  and  that  it  was 
natural  to  her  to  be  silent;  but  to-day,  after 
we  had  smiled  at  each  other,  she  stood  over 
me  with  a  dish  in  one  hand  and  a  plate  in  the 
other,  and  held  forth  at  length  with  the 
utmost  blitheness,  like  some  carolling  black - 
-d,  about  her  sufferings,  and  the  sufferings 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  13 

of  Antoine,  and  the  sufferings  of  everybody 
during  the  war.  The  worse  the  sufferings 
she  described  had  been  the  blither  became 
her  carollings;  and  with  a  final  chirrup  of 
the  most  flute-like  cheerfulness  she  finished 
this  way: 

"Ah,  mafoi,  oui — il  y  avail  un  temps  ow  il 
a  fallu  se  fier  entierement  au  bon  Dieu.  C'etait 
affreux." 

July  30th. 

It's  true  that  the  worst  pain  is  the  remem- 
bering one's  happiness  when  one  is  no  longer 
happy,  and  perhaps  it  may  be  just  as  true 
that  past  miseries  end  by  giving  one  some 
sort  of  satisfaction.  Just  their  being  over 
must  dispose  one  to  regard  them  com- 
placently. Certainly  I  already  remember 
with  a  smile  and  a  not  unaffectionate  shrug 
troubles  that  seemed  very  dreadful  a  few 
years  back.  But  this — this  misery  that  has 
got  me  now,  isn't  it  too  deep,  doesn't  it  cut 
too  ruthlessly  at  the  very  roots  of  my  life 
ever  to  be  something  that  I  will  smile  at? 
It  seems  impossible  that  I  ever  should.  I 
think  the  remembrance  of  this  year  will 
always  come  like  a  knife  cutting  through  any 
little  happiness  I  may  manage  to  collect. 


14  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

You  see,  what  has  happened  has  taken  away 
my  faith  in  goodness — I  don't  know  who  you 
are  that  I  keep  on  wanting  to  tell  things  to, 
but  I  must  talk  and  tell  you.  Yes;  that  is 
what  it  has  done;  and  the  hurt  goes  too  far 
down  to  be  healed.  Yet  I  know  time  is  a 
queer,  wholesome  thing.  I've  lived  long 
enough  to  have  found  that  out.  It  is  very 
sanitary.  It  cleans  up  everything.  It  never 
fails  to  sterilize  and  purify.  Quite  possibly 
I  shall  end  by  being  a  wise  old  lady  who 
discourses  with  the  utmost  sprightliness, 
after  her  regular  meals,  on  her  past  agonies, 
and  extracts  much  agreeable  entertainment 
from  them,  even  is  amusing  about  them. 
You  see,  they  will  be  so  far  away,  so  safely 
done  with;  never,  anyhow,  going  to  happen 
again.  Why  of  course  in  time,  in  years  and 
years,  one's  troubles  must  end  by  being 
entertaining.  But  I  don't  believe,  however 
old  I  am  and  however  wisely  hilarious,  I 
shall  ever  be  able  to  avoid  the  stab  in  the 
back,  the  clutch  of  pain  at  the  heart,  that  the 
remembrance  of  beautiful  past  happiness 
gives  one.  Lost.  Lost.  Gone.  And  one 
is  still  alive,  and  still  gets  up  carefully  every 
day,  and  buttons  all  one's  buttons,  and  goes 
down  to  breakfast. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  15 

July  31st. 

Once  I  knew  a  bishop  rather  intimately— 
oh,  nothing  that  wasn't  most  creditable  to  us 
both — and  he  said  to  me,  "Dear  child,  you  , 
will  always  be  happy  if  you  are  good." 

I'm  afraid  he  couldn't  have  been  quite 
candid,  or  else  he  was  very  inexperienced, 
for  I  have  never  been  so  terribly  good  in 
the  bishop's  sense  as  these  last  three  years — 
turning  my  back  on  every  private  wish, 
dreadfully  unselfish,  devoted,  a  perfect  mon- 
ster of  goodness.  And  unhappiness  went 
with  me  every  step  of  the  way. 

I  much  prefer  what  someone  else  said  to 
me  (not  a  bishop  but  yet  wise),  to  whom  I 
commented  once  on  the  really  extraordinary 
bubbling  happiness  that  used  to  wake  up  with 
me  every  morning,  the  amazing  joy  of  each  day 
as  it  came,  the  warm,  flooding  gratitude  that 
I  should  be  so  happy — this  was  before  the  war. 
He  said,  beginning  also  like  the  bishop  but, 
unlike  him,  failing  in  delicacy  at  the  end, 
"Dear  child,  it  is  because  you  have  a  sound 
stomach." 

August  ]fit. 

The  last  first  of  August  I  was  here  was  the 
1914  one.  It  was  just  such  a  day  as  this— 


16  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

blue,  hot,  glorious  of  colour  and  light.  We 
in  this  house,  cut  off  in  our  remoteness  from 
the  noise  and  excitement  of  a  world  setting 
out  with  cries  of  enthusiasm  on  its  path  of 
suicide,  cut  off  by  distance  and  steepness  even 
from  the  valley  where  the  dusty  Swiss 
soldiers  were  collecting  and  every  sort  of 
rumour  ran  like  flames,  went  as  usual  through 
our  pleasant  day,  reading,  talking,  clamber- 
ing in  the  pine-woods,  eating  romantic  meals 
out  in  the  little  garden  that  hangs  like  a 
fringe  of  flowers  along  the  edge  of  the  rock, 
unconscious,  serene,  confident  in  life.  Just 
as  to-day  the  delphiniums  stood  brilliantly 
blue,  straight,  and  motionless  on  this  edge, 
and  it  might  have  been  the  very  same  purple 
pansies  crowding  at  their  feet.  Nobody  came 
to  tell  us  anything.  We  were  lapped  in 
peace.  Of  course  even  up  here  there  had 
been  the  slight  ruffle  of  the  Archduke's 
murder  in  June,  and  the  slight  wonder 
toward  the  end  of  July  as  to  what  would 
come  of  it;  but  the  ruffle  and  the  wonder 
died  away  in  what  seemed  the  solid,  ever- 
enduring  comfortableness  of  life.  Such  com- 
fortableness went  too  deep,  was  too  much 
settled,  too  heavy,  to  make  it  thinkable  that 
it  should  ever  really  be  disturbed.  There 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  17 

would  be  quarrels,  but  they  would  be  local- 
ized. Why,  the  mere  feeding  of  the  vast 
modern  armies  would  etc.,  etc.  We  were 
very  innocent  and  trustful  in  those  days. 
Looking  back  at  it,  it  is  so  pathetic  as  to  be 
almost  worthy  of  tears. 

Well,  I  don't  want  to  remember  all  that. 
One  turns  with  a  sick  weariness  from  the 
recollection.  At  least  one  is  thankful  that 
we're  at  Now  and  not  at  Then.  This  first 
of  August  has  the  great  advantage  of  having 
all  that  was  coming  after  that  first  of  August 
behind  it  instead  of  ahead  of  it.  At  least  on 
this  first  of  August  most  of  the  killing,  of  the 
slaughtering  of  young  bodies  and  bright 
hopes,  has  left  off.  The  world  is  very  horrible 
still,  but  nothing  can  ever  be  so  horrible  as 
killing. 

August  %nd. 

The  only  thing  to  do  with  one's  old  sorrows 
is  to  tuck  them  up  neatly  in  their  shroud  and 
turn  one's  face  away  from  their  grave  toward 
what  is  coming  next. 

That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do.  To-day  I 
have  the  kind  of  feelings  that  take  hold  of 
convalescents.  I  hardly  dare  hope  it,  but 
I  have  done  things  to-day  that  do  seem 


18  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

convalescent;  done  them  and  liked  doing 
them;  things  that  I  haven't  till  to-day  had 
the  faintest  desire  to  do. 

I've  been  for  a  walk.  And  a  quite  good 
walk,  up  in  the  forest  where  the  water  tumbles 
over  rocks  and  the  air  is  full  of  resin.  And 
then  when  I  got  home  I  burrowed  about 
among  my  books,  arranging  their  volumes 
and  loving  the  feel  of  them.  It  is  more  than 
ten  days  since  I  got  here,  and  till  to-day  I 
haven't  moved;  till  to-day  I've  lain  about 
with  no  wish  to  move,  with  no  wish  at  all 
except  to  have  no  wish.  Once  or  twice  I 
have  been  ashamed  of  myself;  and  once  or 
twice  into  the  sleepy  twilight  of  my  mind  has 
come  a  little  flicker  of  suspicion  that  perhaps 
life  still,  after  all,  may  be  beautiful,  that  it 
may  perhaps,  after  all,  be  just  as  beautiful 
as  ever  if  only  I  will  open  my  eyes  and  look. 
But  the  flicker  has  soon  gone  out  again, 
damped  out  by  the  vault-like  atmosphere  of 
the  place  it  had  got  into. 

To-day  I  do  feel  different;  and  oh,  how 
glad  I'd  be  if  I  could  be  glad!  I  don't  believe 
there  was  ever  anybody  who  loved  being 
happy  as  much  as  I  did.  What  I  mean  is 
that  I  was  so  acutely  conscious  of  being 
happy,  so  appreciative  of  it;  that  I  wasn't 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  IS 

ever  bored,  and  was  always  and  continuously 
grateful  for  the  whole  delicious  loveliness  of 
the  world. 

I  think  it  must  be  unusual  never  to  have 
been  bored.  I  realize  this  when  I  hear  other 
people  talk.  Certainly  I'm  never  bored  as 
people  sometimes  appear  to  be  by  being 
alone,  by  the  absence  of  amusement  from 
without;  and  as  for  bores,  persons  who 
obviously  were  bores,  they  didn't  bore  me, 
they  interested  me.  It  was  so  wonderful  to 
me,  their  unawareness  that  they  were  bores. 
Besides,  they  were  usually  very  kind;  and 
also,  shameful  though  it  is  to  confess,  bores 
like  me,  and  I  am  touched  by  being  liked, 
even  by  a  bore.  Sometimes  it  is  true  I  have 
had  to  take  temporary  refuge  in  doing  what 
Dr.  Johnson  found  so  convenient — with- 
drawing my  attention,  but  this  is  dangerous 
because  of  the  inevitable  accompanying 
glazed  and  wandering  eye.  Still,  much  can 
be  done  by  practice  in  combining  coherency 
of  response  with  private  separate  meditation. 

Just  before  I  left  London  I  met  a  man  whose 
fate  it  has  been  for  years  to  sit  daily  in  the 
Law  Courts  delivering  judgments,  and  he 
told  me  that  he  took  a  volume  of  poetry 
with  him — preferably  Wordsworth — and  read 


20  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

in  it  as  it  lay  open  on  his  knees  under  the 
table,  to  the  great  refreshment  and  invigora- 
tion  of  his  soul;  and  yet,  so  skilled  had  he 
become  in  the  practice  of  two  attentivenesses, 
he  never  missed  a  word  that  was  said  or  a 
point  that  was  made.  There  are  indeed  nice 
people  in  the  world.  I  did  like  that  man. 
It  seemed  such  a  wise  and  pleasant  thing  to 
do,  to  lay  the  dust  of  those  sad  places,  where 
people  who  once  liked  each  other  go  because 
they  are  angry,  with  the  gentle  waters  of 
poetry.  I  am  sure  that  man  is  the  sort  of 
husband  whose  wife's  heart  gives  a  jump  of 
gladness  each  time  he  comes  home. 

August  3rd. 

These  burning  August  days,  when  I  live  in 
so  great  a  glory  of  light  and  colour  that  it  is 
like  living  in  the  glowing  heart  of  a  jewel, 
how  impossible  it  is  to  keep  from  gratitude. 
I'm  so  grateful  to  be  here,  to  have  here  to 
come  to.  Really  I  think  I'm  beginning  to 
feel  different — remote  from  the  old,  unhappy 
things  that  were  strangling  me  dead;  restored; 
almost  as  though  I  might  really  some  day  be 
in  tune  again.  There's  a  moon  now,  and  in 
the  evenings  I  get  into  a  coat  and  lie  in  the 
low  chair  in  the  doorway  watching  it,  and 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  21 

sometimes  I  forget  for  as  long  as  a  whole 
half  hour  that  the  happiness  I  believed  in  is 
gone  for  ever.  I  love  sitting  there  and  feeling 
little  gusts  of  scent  cross  my  face  every  now 
and  then,  as  if  someone  had  patted  it  softly 
in  passing  by.  Sometimes  it  is  the  scent  of 
the  cut  grass  that  has  been  baking  all  day  in 
the  sun,  but  most  often  it  is  the  scent  from  a 
group  of  Madonna  lilies  just  outside  the  door, 
planted  by  Antoine  in  one  of  the  Septembers 
of  the  war. 

"C'est  ma  maman  qui  me  les  a  donnes,"  he 
said;  and  when  I  had  done  expressing  my 
joy  at  their  beauty  and  their  fragrance,  and 
my  appreciation  of  his  maman  s  conduct  in 
having  made  my  garden  so  lovely  a  present, 
he  said  that  she  had  given  them  in  order  that, 
by  brewing  their  leaves  and  applying  the 
resulting  concoction  at  the  right  moment, 
he  and  Mrs.  Antoine  might  be  cured  of  sup- 
purating wounds. 

"But  you  haven't  got  any  suppurating 
wounds,"  I  said,  astonished  and  disillusioned. 

""Ah,  pour  ca  r?or?,"  said  Antoine.  "Mais  il 
nefaut  pas  attendre  qiCon  les  a  pour  se  procurer 
le  remcde." 

Well,  if  he  approaches  every  future  con- 
tingency with  the  same  prudence  he  must  be 


22  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

kept  very  busy;  but  the  long  winters  of  the 
war  up  here  have  developed  in  him,  I  suppose, 
a  Swiss  Family  Robinson-like  ingenuity  of 
preparation  for  eventualities. 

What  lovely  long  words  I've  just  been  writ- 
ing. I  can't  be  as  convalescent  as  I  thought. 
I'm  sure  real  vigour  is  brief.  You  don't  say 
Damn  if  your  vitality  is  low;  you  trail  among 
querulous,  water-blooded  words  like  regret- 
table and  unfortunate.  But  I  think,  perhaps, 
being  in  my  top  layers  very  adaptable,  it  was 
really  the  elderly  books  I've  been  reading  the 
last  day  or  two  that  made  me  arrange  my 
language  along  their  lines.  Not  old  books- 
elderly.  Written  in  the  great  Victorian  age, 
when  the  emotions  draped  themselves  chastely 
in  lengths,  and  avoided  the  rude  simplicities 
of  shorts. 

There  is  the  oddest  lot  of  books  in  this  house, 
pitchforked  together  by  circumstances,  and 
sometimes  their  accidental  rearrangement  by 
Antoine  after  cleaning  their  shelves  each 
spring  of  my  absence  would  make  their  writers, 
if  they  could  know,  curdle  between  their  own 
covers.  Some  are  standing  on  their  heads — 
Antoine  has  no  prejudices  about  the  right  side 
up  of  an  author — most  of  those  in  sets  have 
their  volumes  wrong,  and  yesterday  I  found  a 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  23 

Henry  James,  lost  from  the  rest  of  him,  lost 
even,  it  looked  like,  to  propriety,  held  tight 
between  two  ladies.  The  ladies  were  Ouida 
and  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox.  They  would  hardly 
let  him  go,  they  had  got  him  so  tight.  I 
pulled  him  out,  a  little  damaged,  and  restored 
him,  ruffled  in  spite  of  my  careful  smoothing, 
to  his  proper  place.  It  was  the  "Son  and  Bro- 
ther"; and  there  he  had  been  for  months,  per- 
haps years,  being  hugged.  Dreadful. 

When  I  come  down  to  breakfast,  and  find 
I  am  a  little  ahead  of  the  cafe  au  lait,  I  wander 
into  the  place  that  has  most  books  in  it— 
though  indeed  books  are  in  every  place,  and 
have  even  oozed  along  the  passages — and 
fill  up  the  time  till  Mrs.  Antoine  calls  me  in 
rescue  work  of  an  urgent  nature.  But  it  is 
impossible,  I  find,  to  tidy  books  without 
ending  by  sitting  on  the  floor  in  the  middle 
of  a  great  untidiness  and  reading.  The 
coffee  grows  cold  and  the  egg  repulsive,  but 
still  I  read.  You  open  a  book  idly,  and  you 
see: 

The  most  glaring  anomalies  seemed  to  afford 
them  no  intellectual  inconvenience,  neither 
would  they  listen  to  any  arguments  as  to  the 
waste  of  money  and  happiness  ichich  their  folly 
caused  them.  I  was  allowed  almost  to  call  them 


24  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

life-long  self-deceivers  fo  their  faces,  and  they 
said  it  was  quite  true,  but  that  it  did  not  matter. 

Naturally  then  you  read  on. 

You  open  another  book  idly,  and  you  see: 

Our  admiration  of  King  Alfred  is  greatly 
increased  by  the  fact  that  we  know  very  little 
about  him. 

Naturally  then  you  read  on. 

You  open  another  book  idly,  and  you  see: 

Organic  life,  we  are  told,  has  developed 
gradually  from  the  protozoon  to  the  philosopher, 
and  this  development,  we  are  assured,  is  in- 
dubitably an  advance.  Unfortunately  it  is 
the  philosopher,  not  tJie  protozoon,  who  gives 
us  this  assurance. 

Naturally  then  you  read  on. 

You  open — but  I  could  go  on  all  day  like 
this,  as  I  do  go  on  being  caught  among  the 
books,  and  only  the  distant  anxious  chirps  of 
Mrs.  Antoine,  who  comes  round  to  the  front 
door  to  clear  away  breakfast  and  finds  it 
hasn't  been  begun,  can  extricate  me. 

Perhaps  I  had  better  not  get  arranging 
books  before  breakfast.  It  is  too  likely  to 
worry  that  bird-like  Mrs.  Antoine,  who  is 
afraid,  I  daresay,  that  if  I  don't  drink  my 
coffee  while  it  is  hot  I  may  relapse  into  that 
comatose  condition  that  filled  her  evidently 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  25 

with  much  uneasiness  and  awe.  She  hadn't 
expected,  I  suppose,  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
when  she  did  at  last  get  back  to  it,  to  behave 
like  some  strange  alien  slug,  crawled  up  the 
mountain  only  to  lie  motionless  in  the  sun  for 
the  best  part  of  a  fortnight.  I  heard  her, 
after  the  first  two  days  of  this  conduct, 
explaining  it  to  Antoine,  who,  however,  needed 
no  explanation  because  of  his  god-like  habit 
of  never  being  surprised,  and  her  explanation 
was  that  cetait  la  guerre — convenient  ex- 
planation that  has  been  used  to  excuse  many 
more  unnatural  and  horrible  things  during 
the  last  five  years  than  somebody's  behaving 
as  if  she  were  a  slug. 

But,  really,  the  accidental  juxtapositions 
on  my  bookshelves !  Just  now  I  found  George 
Moore  (his  "Memories  of  my  Dead  Life,"  with 
its  delicate  unmoralities,  its  delicious  pag- 
anism) with  on  one  side  of  him  a  book  called 
"Bruey :  a  Little  Worker  for  Christ,"  by  Frances 
Ridley  Havergal,  and  on  the  other  an  Ameri- 
can book  called  "The  Unselfishness  of  God, 
and  How  I  Discovered  It." 

The  surprise  of  finding  these  three  with 
their  arms,  as  it  were,  round  each  other's 
necks,  got  me  nearer  to  laughter  than  I  have 
been  for  months.  If  anybody  had  been  with 


26  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

me  I  would  have  laughed.     Is  it  possible  that 
I  am  so  far  on  to-day  in  convalescence  that 
I   begin   to   want   a   companion?     Somebody 
to  laugh  with?     Why,  if  that  is  so     .     .     . 
But  I'd  best  not  be  too  hopeful. 

August  4th. 

This  day  five  years  ago!  What  a  thrill 
went  through  us  up  here,  how  proud  we  felt 
of  England,  of  belonging  to  England;  proud 
with  that  extraordinary  intensified  patriotism 
that  lays  hold  of  those  who  are  not  in  their 
own  country. 

It  is  very  like  the  renewal  of  affection,  the 
re-flaming  up  of  love,  for  the  absent.  The 
really  wise  are  often  absent;  though,  indeed, 
their  absences  should  be  arranged  judiciously. 
Too  much  absence  is  very  nearly  as  bad  as 
too  little — no,  not  really  very  nearly;  I 
should  rather  say  too  much  has  its  draw- 
backs, too,  though  only  at  first.  Persisted  in 
these  drawbacks  turn  into  merits;  for  doesn't 
absence,  prolonged  enough,  lead  in  the  end 
to  freedom?  I  suppose,  however,  for  most 
people  complete  freedom  is  too  lonely  a  thing, 
therefore  the  absence  should  only  be  just 
long  enough  to  make  room  for  one  to  see  clear 
again.  Just  a  little  withdrawal  everv  now 


27 

and  then,  just  a  little,  so  as  to  get  a  good 
view  once  more  of  those  dear  qualities  we 
first  loved,  so  as  to  be  able  to  see  that  they're 
still  there,  still  shining. 

How  can  you  see  anything  if  your  nose  is 
right  up  against  it?  I  know  when  we  were 
in  England,  enveloped  in  her  life  at  close 
quarters,  bewildered  by  the  daily  din  of  the 
newspapers,  stunned  by  the  cries  of  the 
politicians,  distracted  by  the  denouncements, 
accusations,  revilings  with  which  the  air  was 
convulsed,  and  acutely  aware  of  the  back- 
ground of  sad,  drizzling  rain  on  the  pavements, 
and  of  places  like  Cromwell  Road  and  Shaftes- 
bury  Avenue  and  Ashley  Gardens  being  there 
all  the  time,  never  different,  great  ugly 
houses  with  the  rain  dripping  on  them, 
gloomy,  temporary  lodgings  for  successive 
processions  of  the  noisy  dead — I  know  when 
we  were  in  the  middle  of  all  this,  right  up 
tight  against  it,  we  couldn't  see,  and  so  we  for- 
got the  side  of  England  that  was  great. 

But  when  she  went  to  war  we  were  not 
there;  we  had  been  out  of  her  for  months, 
and  she  had  got  focussed  again  patriotically. 
Again  she  was  the  precious  stone  set  in  a 
silver  sea,  the  other  Eden,  derm-Paradise, 
the  England  my  England,  the  splendid  thing 


28  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

that  had  made  splendid  poets,  the  hope  and 
heart  of  the  world.  Long  before  she  had 
buckled  on  her  sword — how  easily  one  drops 
into  the  old  language! — long  before  there 
was  any  talk  of  war,  just  by  sheer  being  away 
from  her  we  had  re-acquired  that  peculiar  ag- 
gressive strut  of  the  spirit  that  is  patriotism. 
We  liked  the  Swiss,  we  esteemed  them; 
and  when  we  crossed  into  Italy  we  liked  the 
Italians,  too,  though  esteeming  them  less — 
I  think  because  they  seemed  less  thrifty  and 
enjoyed  themselves  more,  and  we  were  still 
sealed  up  in  the  old  opinion  that  undis- 
criminating,  joyless  thrift  was  virtuous.  But 
though  we  liked  and  esteemed  these  people 
it  was  from  a  height.  At  the  back  of  our 
minds  we  always  felt  superior,  at  the  back  of 
our  minds  we  were  strutting.  Every  day  of 
further  absence  from  England,  our  England, 
increased  that  delicious  subconscious  smug- 
ness. Then  when  on  the  4th  of  August 
she  "came  in,"  came  in  gloriously  because 
of  her  word  to  Belgium,  really  this  little 
house  contained  so  much  enthusiasm  and 
pride  that  it  almost  could  be  heard  crack- 
ing. 

What  shall  we  do  when  we  all  get  to  heaven 
and  aren't  allowed  to  have  any  patriotism? 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  29 

There,  surely,  we  shall  at  last  be  forced  into 
one  vast  family.  But  I  imagine  that  every 
time  God  isn't  looking  the  original  patriotism 
of  each  will  break  out,  right  along  throughout 
eternity;  and  some  miserable  English  tramp, 
who  has  only  been  let  into  heaven  because 
he  positively  wasn't  man  enough  for  hell, 
will  seize  his  opportunity  to  hiss  at  a  neat 
Swiss  business  man  from  Berne,  whose  life  on 
earth  was  blamelessly  spent  in  the  production 
of  cuckoo-clocks,  and  whose  mechanical- 
ingenuity  was  such  that  he  even,  so  ran  the 
heavenly  rumours  among  the  mild,  astonished 
angels,  had  propagated  his  family  by  ma- 
chinery, that  he,  the  tramp,  is  a  b — Briton, 
and  if  he,  the  b — b — b — Swiss  (I  believe 
tramps  always  talk  in  b's;  anyhow  news- 
papers and  books  say  they  do),  doubts  it, 
he'd  b — well,  better  come  outside  and  he, 
the  tramp,  will  b — well,  soon  show  him. 

To  which  the  neat  Berne  gentleman,  on 
other  subjects  so  completely  pervaded  by  the 
local  heavenly  calm,  will  answer  with  a 
sudden  furious  mechanical  buzzing,  much 
worse  and  much  more  cowing  to  the  tramp 
than  any  swear-words,  and  passionately  up- 
hold the  might  and  majesty  of  Switzerland 
in  a  prolonged,  terrific  whrrrrr. 


30  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

August  5th. 

I  want  to  talk.     I  must  be  better. 

August  6th. 

Of  course,  the  most  battered,  the  most 
obstinately  unhappy  person  couldn't  hold 
out  for  ever  against  the  all-pervading  bene- 
diction of  this  place.  I  know  there  is  just  the 
same  old  wretchedness  going  on  as  usual 
outside  it — cruelty,  people  wantonly  making 
each  other  miserable,  love  being  thrown 
away  or  frightened  into  fits,  the  dreadful 
betrayal  of  trust  that  is  the  blackest  wretched- 
ness of  all — I  can  almost  imagine  that  if  I 
were  to  hang  over  my  terrace-wall  I  would 
see  these  well-known  dreary  horrors  crawling 
about  in  the  valley  below,  crawling  and 
tumbling  about  together  in  a  ghastly  tangle. 
But  at  least  there  isn't  down  there  now  my 
own  particular  contribution  to  the  general 
wretchedness.  I  brought  that  up  here; 
dragged  it  up  with  me,  not  because  I  wanted 
to,  but  because  it  would  come.  Surely, 
though,  I  shall  leave  it  here?  Surely  there'll 
be  a  day  when  I'll  be  able  to  pack  it  away 
into  a  neat  bundle  and  take  it  up  to  the  top 
of  some  arid,  never-again-to-be-visited  rock, 
and  leave  it  there  and  say,  "Good-bye.  I'm 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  31 

separate.  I've  cut  the  umbilical  cord.  Good- 
bye, old  misery.  Now  for  what  comes  next." 
I  can't  believe  this  won't  happen.  I  can't 
believe  I  won't  go  back  down  the  mountain 
different  from  what  I  was  when  I  came. 
Lighter,  anyhow,  and  more  wholesome  in- 
side. Oh,  I  do  so  want  to  be  wholesome 
inside  again!  Nicely  aired,  sunshiny; 
instead  of  all  dark,  and  stuffed  up  with  black 
memories. 

August  7th. 

But  I  am  getting  on.  Every  morning  now 
when  I  wake  and  see  the  patch  of  bright 
sunshine  on  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  my  bed 
that  means  another  perfect  day,  my  heart 
goes  out  in  an  eager  prayer  that  I  may  not 
disgrace  so  great  a  blessing  by  private  gloom. 
And  I  do  think  each  of  these  last  days  has 
been  a  little  less  disgraced  than  its  yesterday. 
Hardly  a  smudge,  for  instance,  has  touched 
any  part  of  this  afternoon.  I  have  felt  as 
though  indeed  I  were  at  last  sitting  up  and 
taking  notice.  And  the  first  thing  I  want  to 
do,  the  first  use  I  want  to  make  of  having 
turned  the  corner,  is  to  talk. 

How  feminine.  But  I  love  to  talk.  Again 
how  feminine.  Well,  I  also  love  to  listen. 


32  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

But  chiefly  I  love  to  listen  to  a  man;  there- 
fore, once  more,  how  feminine.  Well,  I'm 
a  woman,  so  naturally  I'm  feminine;  and 
a  man  does  seem  to  have  more  to  say  that 
one  wants  to  hear  than  a  woman.  I  do  want 
to  hear  what  a  woman  has  to  say,  too,  but  not 
for  so  long  a  time,  and  not  so  often.  Not 
nearly  so  often.  What  reason  to  give  for 
this  reluctance  I  don't  quite  know,  except 
that  a  woman  when  she  talks  seems  usually 
to  have  forgotten  the  salt.  Also  she  is  apt 
to  go  on  talking;  sometimes  for  quite  a  little 
while  after  you  have  begun  to  wish  she  would 
leave  off. 

One  of  the  last  people  who  stayed  here 
with  me  alone  in  1914,  just  before  the  ar- 
rival of  the  gay  holiday  group  of  the  final 
days,  was  a  woman  of  many  gifts — le  trop  est 
rennemi  du  bien — who  started,  therefore, 
being  full  of  these  gifts  and  having  eloquently 
to  let  them  out,  talking  at  the  station  in  the 
valley  where  I  met  her,  and  didn't,  to  my 
growing  amazement  and  chagrin,  for  I,  too, 
wanted  to  say  something,  leave  off  (except 
when  night  wrapped  her  up  in  blessed  silence) 
till  ten  days  afterwards,  when  by  the  mercy 
of  providence  she  swallowed  a  crumb  wrong, 
and  so  had  to  stop. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  33 

How  eagerly,  released  for  a  moment,  I 
rushed  in  with  as  much  as  I  could  get  out 
during  the  brief  time  I  knew  she  would  take 
to  recover!  But  my  voice,  hoarse  with  dis- 
use, had  hardly  said  three  sentences — miser- 
able little  short  ones — when  she  did  recover, 
and  fixing  impatient  and  reproachful  eyes  on 
me  said: 

"Do  you  always  talk  so  much?" 

Surely  that  was  unjust? 

August  8th. 

Now  see  what  Henry  James  wrote  to  me — 
to  me  if  you  please!  I  can't  get  over  it, 
such  a  feather  in  my  cap.  Why,  I  had 
almost  forgotten  I  had  a  cap  to  have  a  feather 
in,  so  profound  has  been  my  humbling  since 
last  I  was  here. 

In  the  odd,  fairy-tale  like  way  I  keep  on 
finding  bits  of  the  past,  of  years  ago,  as 
though  they  were  still  of  the  present,  even  of 
the  last  half  hour,  I  found  the  letter  this 
morning  in  a  room  I  wandered  into  after 
breakfast.  It  is  the  only  room  downstairs 
besides  the  hall,  and  I  used  to  take  refuge  in 
it  from  the  other  gay  inhabitants  of  the  house 
so  as  to  open  and  answer  letters  somewhere 
cot  too  distractingly  full  of  cheerful  talk; 


34  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  there  on  the  table,  spotlessly  kept  clean 
by  Antoine  but  else  not  touched,  were  all  the 
papers  and  odds  and  ends  of  five  years  back 
exactly  as  I  must  have  left  them.  Even 
some  chocolate  I  had  apparently  been  eating, 
and  some  pennies,  and  a  handful  of  cigarettes, 
and  actually  a  box  of  matches — it  was  all 
there,  all  beautifully  dusted,  all  as  it  must 
have  been  when  last  I  sat  there  at  the  table. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  silence,  the  complete, 
sunny  emptiness  and  silence  of  the  house,  I 
would  certainly  have  thought  I  had  only  been 
asleep  and  having  a  bad  dream,  and  that  not 
five  years  but  one  uneasy  night  had  gone 
since  I  nibbled  that  chocolate  and  wrote  with 
those  pens. 

Fascinated  and  curious  I  sat  down  and 
began  eating  the  chocolate  again.  It  was 
quite  good;  made  of  good,  lasting  stuff  in 
that  good,  apparently  lasting  age  we  used 
to  live  in.  And  while  I  ate  it  I  turned  over 
the  piles  of  papers,  and  there  at  the  bottom  of 
them  was  a  letter  from  Henry  James. 

I  expect  I  kept  it  near  me  on  the  table 
because  I  so  much  loved  it  and  wanted  to 
re-read  it,  and  wanted,  I  daresay,  at  intervals 
proudly  to  show  it  to  my  friends  and  make 
them  envious,  for  it  was  written  at  Christmas, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  35 

1913;  months  before  I  left  for  England. 
Reading  it  now  my  feeling  is  just  astonish- 
ment that  I,  7  should  ever  have  had  such  a 
letter.  But  then  I  am  greatly  humbled; 
I  have  been  on  the  rocks;  and  can't  believe 
that  such  a  collection  of  broken  bits  as  I  am 
now  could  ever  have  been  a  trim  bark  with 
all  its  little  sails  puffed  out  by  the  kindliness 
and  affection  of  anybody  as  wonderful  as 
Henry  James. 

Here  it  is;  and  it  isn't  any  more  vain  of 
me  now  in  my  lamed  and  bruised  condition 
to  copy  it  out  and  hang  on  its  charming  com- 
pliments than  it  is  vain  for  a  woman  who 
once  was  lovely  and  is  now  grown  old  to  talk 
about  how  pretty  she  used  to  be: 

21  Carlyle  Mansions, 
Cheyne  Walk,  S.  W., 
December  29th,  1913. 

Dear- 
Let  me  tell  you  that  I  simply  delight  in 
your  beautiful  and  generous  and  gracious 
little  letter,  and  that  there  isn't  a  single 
honeyed  word  of  it  that  doesn't  give  me 
the  most  exquisite  pleasure.  You  fill  the 
measure — and  how  can  I  tell  you  how  I  like 
the  measure  to  be  filled?  None  of  vour 


36  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

quarter-bushels  or  half -bushels  for  my  insati- 
able appetite,  but  the  overflowing  heap, 
pressed  down  and  shaken  together  and  spilling 
all  over  the  place.  So  I  pick  up  the  golden 
grains  and  nibble  them  one  by  one!  Truly, 
dear  lady,  it  is  the  charmingest  rosy  flower  of 
a  letter — handed  ine  straight  out  of  your 
monstrous  snowbank.  That  you  can  grow 
such  flowers  in  such  conditions — besides 
growing  with  such  diligence  and  elegance  all 
sorts  of  other  lovely  kinds,  has  for  its  ex- 
planation of  course  only  that  you  have  such 
a  regular  teeming  garden  of  a  mind.  You 
must  mainly  inhabit  it,  of  course — with  your 
other  courts  of  exercise  so  grand,  if  you  will, 
but  so  grim.  Well,  you  have  caused  me  to 
revel  in  pride  and  joy — for  I  assure  you  that 
I  have  let  myself  go;  all  the  more  that  the 
revelry  of  the  season  here  itself  has  been  so 
far  from  engulfing  me  that  till  your  witching 
words  came  I  really  felt  perched  on  a  moun- 
tain of  lonely  bleakness  socially  and  sen- 
suously speaking  alike — very  much  like  one 
of  those  that  group  themselves,  as  I  suppose, 
under  your  windows.  But  I  have  had  my 
Xmastide  noiv,  and  am  your  all  grateful 
and  faithful  and  all  unforgetting  old  Henry 
James. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  37 

Who  wouldn't  be  proud  of  getting  a  letter 
like  that?  It  was  wonderful  to  come  across 
it  again,  wonderful  how  my  chin  went  up  in 
the  air  and  how  straight  I  sat  up  for  a  bit 
after  reading  it.  And  I  laughed,  too;  for 
with  what  an  unbuttoned  exuberance  must 
I  have  engulfed  him!  " Spilling  all  over  the 
place."  I  can  quite  believe  it.  I  had,  I 
suppose,  been  reading  or  re-reading  some- 
thing of  his,  and  had  been  swept  off  sobriety 
of  expression  by  delight,  and  in  that  condition 
of  emotional  unsteadiness  and  molten  appre- 
ciation must  have  rushed  impetuously  to  the 
nearest  pen. 

How  warmly,  with  what  grateful  love,  one 
thinks  of  Henry  James.  How  difficult  to 
imagine  any  one  riper  in  wisdom,  in  kindliness, 
in  wit;  greater  of  affection;  more  generous 
of  friendship.  And  his  talk,  his  wonderful 
talk — even  more  wonderful  than  his  books. 
If  only  he  had  been  a  Boswell !  I  did  ask  him 
one  day,  in  a  courageous  after-dinner  mood, 
if  he  wouldn't  take  me  on  as  his  Boswell;  a 
Boswell  so  deeply  devoted  that  perhaps 
qualifications  for  the  post  would  grow  through 
sheer  admiration.  I  told  him — my  coura- 
geous levity  was  not  greater  on  that  occasion 
than  his  patience — that  I  would  disguise 


38  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

myself  as  a  man;  or,  better  still,  not  being 
quite  big  enough  to  make  a  plausible  man  and 
unlikely  to  grow  any  more  except,  it  might 
be  hoped,  in  grace,  I  would  be  an  elderly  boy; 
that  I  would  rise  up  early  and  sit  up  late  and 
learn  shorthand  and  do  anything  in  the  world, 
if  only  I  might  trot  about  after  him  taking 
notes — the  strange  pair  we  should  have  made! 
And  the  judgment  he  passed  on  that  reckless 
suggestion,  after  considering  its  impudence 
with  much  working  about  of  his  extraordinary 
mobile  mouth,  delivering  his  verdict  with  a 
weight  of  pretended  self -depreciation  intended 
to  crush  me  speechless — which  it  did  for 
nearly  a  whole  second — was:  "Dear  lady,  it 
would  be  like  the  slow  squeezing  out  of  a  big 
empty  sponge." 

August  9th. 

This  little  wooden  house,  clinging  on  to  the 
side  of  the  mountain  by  its  eyelashes,  or 
rather  by  its  eyebrows,  for  it  has  enormous 
eaves  to  protect  it  from  being  smothered  in 
winter  in  snow,  that  look  exactly  like  over- 
hanging eyebrows — is  so  much  cramped  up 
for  room  to  stand  on  that  the  garden  along 
the  edge  of  the  rock  isn't  much  bigger  than  a 
handkerchief. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  39 

It  is  a  strip  of  grass,  tended  with  devotion 
by  Antoine,  whose  pride  it  is  that  it  should  be 
green  when  all  the  other  grass  on  the  slopes 
round  us  up  the  mountain  and  down  the 
mountain  are  parched  pale  gold;  which 
leads  him  to  spend  most  of  his  evening  hours 
watering  it.  There  is  a  low  wall  along  the 
edge  to  keep  one  from  tumbling  over,  for  if 
one  did  tumble  over  it  wouldn't  be  nice  for 
the  people  walking  about  in  the  valley  five 
thousand  feet  below,  and  along  this  wall  is 
the  narrow  ribbon  of  the  only  flowers  that 
will  put  up  with  us. 

They  aren't  many.  There  are  the  del- 
phiniums, and  some  pansies  and  some  pinks, 
and  a  great  many  purple  irises.  The  irises 
were  just  over  when  I  first  got  here,  but 
judging  from  the  crowds  of  flower-stalks 
they  must  have  been  very  beautiful.  There 
is  only  one  flower  left;  exquisite  and  velvety 
and  sun-warmed  to  kiss — which  I  do  dili- 
gently, for  one  must  kiss  something — and 
with  that  adorable  honey-smell  that  is  the 
very  smell  of  summer. 

That's  all  in  the  garden.  It  isn't  much, 
written  down,  but  you  should  just  see  it. 
Oh,  yes — I  forgot.  Round  the  corner,  scram- 
bling up  the  wall  that  protects  the  house  in 


40  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  early  spring  from  avalanches,  are  crimson 
ramblers,  brilliant  against  the  intense  blue 
of  the  sky.  Crimson  ramblers  are,  I  know, 
ordinary  things,  but  you  should  just  see 
them.  It  is  the  colour  of  the  sky  that  makes 
them  so  astonishing  here.  Yes — and  I  forgot 
the  lilies  that  Antoine's  maman  gave  him. 
They  are  near  the  front  door,  and  next  to 
them  is  a  patch  of  lavender  in  full  flower  now, 
and  all  day  long  on  each  of  its  spikes  is  poised 
miraculously  something  that  looks  like  a  tiny 
radiant  angel,  but  that  flutters  up  into  the 
sun  when  I  go  near  and  is  a  white  butterfly. 
Antoine  must  have  put  in  the  lavender.  N  It 
used  not  to  be  there.  But  I  don't  ask  him 
because  of  what  he  might  tell  me  it  is  really 
for,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  that  patch 
of  sheer  loveliness,  with  the  little  shining 
things  hovering  over  it,  explained  as  a  remcde 
for  something  horrid. 

If  I  could  paint  I  would  sit  all  day  and 
paint;  as  I  can't  I  try  to  get  down  on  paper 
what  I  see.  It  gives  me  pleasure.  It  is 
somehow  companionable.  I  wouldn't,  I 
think,  do  this  if  I  were  not  alone.  I  would 
probably  exhaust  myself  and  my  friend  point- 
ing out  the  beauty. 

The  garden,  it  will  be  seen,  as  gardens  go, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  41 

is  pathetic  in  its  smallness  and  want  of 
variety.  Possessors  of  English  gardens,  with 
those  immense  wonderful  herbaceous  borders 
and  skilfully  arranged  processions  of  flowers, 
might  conceivably  sniff  at  it.  Let  them.  I 
love  it.  And  if  it  were  smaller  still,  if  it  were 
shrunk  to  a  single  plant  with  a  single  flower  on 
it,  it  would  perhaps  only  enchant  me  the  more, 
for  then  I  would  concentrate  on  that  one 
beauty  and  not  be  distracted  by  the  feeling 
that  does  distract  me  here,  that  while  I  am 
looking  one  way  I  am  missing  what  is  going 
on  in  other  directions.  Those  beasts  in 
Revelations — the  ones  full  of  eyes  before  and 
behind — I  wish  I  had  been  constructed  on 
liberal  principles  like  that. 

But  one  really  hardly  wants  a  garden  here 
where  God  does  so  much.  It  is  like  Italy  in 
that  way,  and  an  old  wooden  box  of  pansies  or 
a  pot  of  lilies  stuck  anywhere,  in  a  window,  on 
the  end  of  a  wall,  is  enough — composing  in- 
stantly with  what  is  so  beautifully  there  al- 
ready, the  light,  the  colour,  the  shapes  of  the 
mountains.  Really,  where  God  does  it  all 
for  you  just  a  yard  or  two  arranged  in  your 
way  is  enough;  enough  to  assert  your  inde- 
pendence, and  to  show  a  proper  determina- 
tion to  make  something  of  your  own. 


42  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

August  Wth. 

I  don't  know  when  it  is  most  beautiful  up 
here — in  the  morning,  when  the  heat  lies 
along  the  valley  in  delicate  mists,  and  the 
folded  mountains,  one  behind  the  other, 
grow  dimmer  and  dimmer  beyond  sight, 
swooning  away  through  tender  gradations 
of  violets  and  grays,  or  at  night  when  I  look 
over  the  edge  of  the  terrace  and  see  the  lights 
in  the  valley  shimmering  as  though  they  were 
reflected  in  water. 

I  seem  to  be  seeing  it  now  for  the  first  time, 
with  new  eyes.  I  know  I  used  to  see  it  when 
I  was  here  before,  used  to  feel  it  and  rejoice 
in  it,  but  it  was  entangled  in  other  things 
then,  it  was  only  part  of  the  many  happinesses 
with  which  those  days  were  full,  claiming  my 
attention  and  my  thoughts.  They  claimed 
them  wonderfully  and  hopefully  it  is  true, 
but  they  took  me  much  away  from  what  I 
can  only  call  for  want  of  a  better  word — (a 
better  word:  what  a  thing  to  say!) — God. 
Now  those  hopes  and  wonders,  those  other 
joys  and  lookings-forward  and  happy  trusts 
are  gone;  and  the  wounds  they  left,  the  dread- 
ful sore  places,  are  slowly  going,  too.  And 
how  I  see  beauty  now  is  with  the  new  sensi- 
tiveness, the  new  astonishment  at  it,  of  a  per- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  43 

son  who  for  a  long  time  has  been  having  awful 
dreams,  and  one  morning  wakes  up  and  the 
delirium  is  gone,  and  he  lies  in  a  state  of  the 
most  exquisite  glad  thankfulness,  the  most 
extraordinary  minute  appreciation  of  the  dear, 
wonderful  common  things  of  life — just  the 
sun  shining  on  his  counterpane,  the  scents 
from  the  garden  coming  in  through  his 
window,  the  very  smell  of  the  coffee  being 
got  ready  for  breakfast — oh,  delight,  delight 
to  think  one  didn't  die  this  time,  that  one 
isn't  going  to  die  this  time  after  all,  but  is 
going  to  get  better,  going  to  live,  going  pres- 
ently to  be  quite  well  again  and  able  to  go 
back  to  one's  friends,  to  the  people  who  still 
love  one. 

August  ll///. 

To-day  is  a  saint's  day.  This  is  a  Catholic 
part  of  Switzerland,  and  they  have  a  great 
many  holidays  because  they  have  a  great 
many  saints.  There  is  hardly  a  week  without 
some  saint  in  it  who  has  to  be  commemorated, 
and  often  there  are  two  in  the  same  week,  and 
sometimes  three.  I  know  when  we  have 
reached  another  saint,  for  then  the  church 
bells  of  the  nearest  village  begin  to  jangle, 
and  go  on  doing  it  every  two  hours.  When 


44  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

this  happens  the  peasants  leave  off  work,  and 
the  busy,  saint-unencumbered  Protestants 
get  ahead. 

Mrs.  Antoine  was  a  Catholic  before  she 
married,  but  the  sagacious  Antoine,  who 
wasn't  one,  foreseeing  days  in  most  of  his 
weeks  when  she  might,  if  he  hadn't  been 
quite  kind  to  her,  or  rather  if  she  fancied  he 
hadn't  been  quite  kind  to  her — and  the  fancies 
of  wives,  he  had  heard,  were  frequent  and 
vivid — the  sagacious  Antoine,  foreseeing 
these  numerous  holy  days  ahead  of  him  on 
any  of  which  Mrs.  Antoine  might  explain 
as  piety  what  was  really  pique  and  decline 
to  cook  his  dinner,  caused  her  to  turn  Prot- 
estant before  the  wedding.  Which  she  did; 
conscious,  as  she  told  me,  that  she  was  getting 
a  bon  mari  qui  valait  bien  $a;  and  thus  at  one 
stroke  Antoine  secured  his  daily  dinners 
throughout  the  year  and  rid  himself  of  all 
his  wife's  relations.  For  they,  consisting  I 
gather  principally  of  aunts,  her  father  and 
mother  being  dead,  were  naturally  displeased 
and  won't  know  the  Antoines;  which  is,  I 
am  told  by  those  who  have  managed  it,  the 
most  refreshing  thing  in  the  world:  to  get 
your  relations  not  to  know  you.  So  that  not 
only  does  he  live  now  in  the  blessed  freedom 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  45 

and  dignity  that  appears  to  be  reserved  for 
those  whose  relations  are  angry,  but  he  has  no 
priests  about  him  either.  Really  Antoine  is 
very  intelligent. 

And  he  has  done  other  intelligent  things 
while  I  have  been  away.  For  instance: 

When  first  I  came  here,  two  or  three  years 
before  the  war,  I  desired  to  keep  the  place 
free  from  the  smells  of  farmyard.  "There 
shall  be  no  cows,"  I  said. 

"C'est  bicn,"  said  Antoine. 

"Nor  any  chickens." 

"C'est  bien,"  said  Antoine. 

"Neither  shall  there  be  any  pigs." 

"C'est  bien"  said  Antoine. 

" Surtout"  I  repeated,  fancying  I  saw  in  his 
eye  a  kind  of  private  piggy  regret,  "pas  dc 
pores."" 

"C'est  bien"  said  Antoine,  the  look  fading. 

For  most  of  my  life  up  to  then  had  been 
greatly  infested  by  pigs;  and  though  they 
were  superior  pigs,  beautifully  kept,  housed 
and  fed  far  better,  shameful  to  relate,  than 
the  peasants  of  that  place,  on  the  days  when 
the  wind  blew  from  where  they  were  to  where 
we  were,  clean  them  and  air  them  as  one 
might  there  did  come  blowing  over  us  a 
great  volume  of  unmistakeable  pig.  Fclips- 


46  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

ing  the  lilies.  Smothering  the  roses.  Also, 
on  still  days  we  could  hear  their  voices,  and 
the  calm  of  many  a  summer  evening  was 
rent  asunder  by  their  squeals.  There  were 
an  enormous  number  of  little  pigs,  for  in  that 
part  of  the  country  it  was  unfortunately  not 
the  custom  to  eat  sucking-pigs,  which  is  such 
a  convenient  as  well  as  agreeable  way  of 
keeping  them  quiet,  and  they  squealed  atro- 
ciously; out  of  sheer  high  spirits,  I  suppose, 
being  pampered  pigs  and  having  no  earthly 
reason  to  squeal  except  for  joy. 

Remembering  all  this,  I  determined  that 
up  here  at  any  rate  we  should  be  pure  from 
pigs.  And  from  cows,  too;  and  from 
chickens.  For  did  I  not  also  remember 
things  both  cows  and  chickens  had  done  to 
me?  The  hopes  of  a  whole  year  in  the 
garden  had  often  been  destroyed  by  one 
absent-minded,  wandering  cow;  and  though 
we  did  miracles  with  wire-netting  and  the 
concealing  of  wire-netting  by  creepers,  sooner 
or  later  a  crowd  of  lustful  hens,  led  by  some 
great  bully  of  a  cock,  got  in  and  tore  up 
the  crocuses  just  at  that  early  time  of  the 
year  when,  after  an  endless  winter,  crocuses 
seem  the  most  precious  and  important  things 
in  the  world. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  47 

Therefore  this  place  had  been  kept  carefully 
empty  of  live-stock,  and  we  bought  our  eggs 
and  our  milk  from  the  peasants,  and  didn't 
have  any  sausages,  and  the  iris  bulbs  were 
not  scratched  up,  and  the  air  had  nothing  in 
it  but  smells  of  honey  and  hay  in  summer, 
and  nothing  in  winter  but  the  ineffable  pure 
cold  smell  of  what,  again  for  want  of  a  better 
word,  I  can  only  describe  as  God.  But  then 
the  war  came,  and  our  hurried  return  to 
England;  and  instead  of  being  back  as  we 
had  thought  for  Christmas,  we  didn't  come 
back  at  all.  Year  after  year  went,  Christmas 
after  Christmas,  and  nobody  came  back. 
I  suppose  Antoine  began  at  last  to  feel  as  if 
nobody  ever  would  come  back.  I  can't 
guess  at  what  moment  precisely  in  those 
years  his  thoughts  began  to  put  out  feelers 
toward  pigs,  but  he  did  at  last  consider  it 
proper  to  regard  my  pre-war  instructions  as 
finally  out  of  date,  and  gathered  a  suitable 
selection  of  live-stock  about  him.  I  expect 
he  got  to  this  stage  fairly  early,  for  having 
acquired  a  nice,  round  little  wife  he  was 
determined,  being  a  wise  man,  to  keep  her  so. 
And  having  also  an  absentee  patronc — that  is 
the  word  that  locally  means  me— absent, 
and  therefore  not  able  to  be  disturbed  by 


48  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

live-stock,  he  would  keep  her  placid  by 
keeping  her  unconscious. 

How  simple,  and  how  intelligent. 

In  none  of  his  monthly  letters  did  the  word 
pig,  cow,  or  chicken  appear.  He  wrote 
agreeably  of  the  weather:  cetait  magnifique, 
or  cetait  bien  triste,  according  to  the  season. 
He  wrote  of  the  French  and  Belgian  sick 
prisoners  of  war,  interned  in  those  places 
scattered  about  the  mountains  which  used 
to  be  the  haunts  of  parties  catered  for  by 
Lunn.  He  wrote  appreciatively  of  the  use- 
fulness and  good  conduct  of  the  watch-dog, 
a  splendid  creature,  much  bigger  than  I  am, 
with  the  lap-doggy  name  of  Mou-Mou.  He 
lengthily  described  unexciting  objects  like 
the  whiskers  of  the  cat:  favoris  superbes  qui 
poussent  toujours,  malgre  ces  jours  maigres  de 
guerre;  and  though  sometimes  he  expressed 
a  little  disappointment  at  the  behaviour  of 
Mrs.  Antoine's  estomac  qui  lid  fait  beaucoup 
d' ennuis  et  parait  mat  register  aux  grands 
f raids,  he  always  ended  up  soothingly:  Pour 
la  maison  tout  va  bien.  Madame  pent  etre 
entiercment  tranquille. 

Never  a  word,  you  see,  about  the  live- 
stock. 

So  there  in   England   was  Madame   being 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  49 

entierement  tranquille  about  her  little  house, 
and  glad  indeed  that  she  could  be;  for  what- 
ever had  happened  to  it  or  to  the  Antoines 
she  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  do  anything. 
Tethered  on  the  other  side  of  the  impassable 
barrier  of  war,  if  the  house  had  caught  fire 
she  could  only,  over  there  in  England,  have 
wrung  her  hands;  and  if  Mrs.  Antoine's 
estomac  had  given  out  so  completely  that  she 
and  Antoine  had  had  to  abandon  their  post 
and  take  to  the  plains  and  doctors,  she  could 
only  have  sat  still  and  cried.  The  soothing 
letters  were  her  comfort  for  five  years— 
madame  pent  etre  entierement  tranquille;  how 
sweetly  the  words  fell,  month  by  month,  on 
ears  otherwise  harassed  and  tormented! 

It  wasn't  till  I  had  been  here  nearly  a 
fortnight  that  I  began  to  be  aware  of  my 
breakfast.  Surely  it  was  very  nice?  Such 
a  lot  of  milk;  and  every  day  a  little  jug  of 
cream.  And  surprising  butter — surprising 
not  only  because  it  was  so  very  fresh  but 
because  it  was  there  at  all.  I  had  been  told 
in  England  that  there  was  no  butter  to  be  got 
here,  not  an  ounce  to  be  bought  from  one  end 
of  Switzerland  to  the  other.  Well,  there  it 
was;  fresh  every  day,  and  in  a  singular 
abundance. 


50  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Through  the  somnolence  of  my  mind,  of  all 
the  outward  objects  surrounding  me  I  think 
it  was  the  butter  that  got  in  first;  and  my 
awakening  intelligence,  after  a  period  of 
slow  feeling  about  and  some  relapses,  did  at 
last  one  morning  hit  on  the  conviction  that 
at  the  other  end  of  that  butter  was  a  cow. 

This,  so  far,  was  to  be  expected  as  the  result 
of  reasoning.  But  where  I  began  to  be  pleased 
with  myself,  and  feel  as  if  Paley's  Evidences 
had  married  Sherlock  Holmes  and  I  was  the 
bright  pledge  of  their  loves,  was  when  I 
proceeded  from  this,  without  moving  from 
my  chair,  to  discover  by  sheer  thinking  that 
the  cow  was  very  near  the  butter,  because 
else  the  butter  couldn't  possibly  be  made 
fresh  every  day — so  near  that  it  must  be  at 
that  moment  grazing  on  the  bit  of  pasture 
belonging  to  me;  and,  if  that  were  so,  the 
conclusion  was  irresistible  that  it  must  be 
my  cow. 

After  that  my  thoughts  leaped  about  the 
breakfast  table  with  comparative  nimbleness. 
I  remembered  that  each  morning  there  had 
been  an  egg,  and  that  eggy  puddings  had 
appeared  at  the  other  meals.  Before  the 
war  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  eggs  up 
here;  clearly,  then,  I  had  chickens  of  my 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  51 

own.  And  the  honey;  I  felt  it  would  no 
longer  surprise  me  to  discover  that  I  also  had 
bees,  for  this  honey  was  the  real  thing — not 
your  made-up  stuff  of  the  London  shops. 
And  strawberries;  every  morning  a  great 
cabbage  leaf  of  strawberries  had  been  on  the 
table,  real  garden  strawberries,  over  long  ago 
down  in  the  valley  and  never  dreamed  of  as 
things  worth  growing  by  the  peasants  in  the 
mountains.  Obviously  I  counted  these,  too, 
among  my  possessions  in  some  corner  out  of 
sight.  The  one  object  I  couldn't  proceed  to  by 
inductive  reasoning  from  what  was  on  the 
table  was  a  pig.  Antoine's  courage  had 
failed  him  over  that.  Too  definitely  must 
my  repeated  warning  have  echoed  in  his  ears: 
Surtout  pas  de  pores. 

But  how  very  intelligent  he  had  been.  It 
needs  intelligence  if  one  is  conscientious  to 
disobey  orders  at  the  right  moment.  And  me 
so  unaware  all  the  time,  and  therefore  so 
unworried ! 

He  passed  along  the  terrace  at  that  moment, 
a  watering-pot  in  his  hand. 

"Antoine,"  I  said. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  stopping  and  taking  off 
his  cap. 

"This  egg—       "  I  said,  pointing  to  the  shell, 


52  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  said  it  in  French,  but  prefer  not  to  put  my 
French  on  paper. 

"Ah — madame  a  vu  les  ponies." 

"This  butter- 

"Ah — madame  a  visile  la  vache." 

"The  pig ?"   I  hesitated.   "Is  there— is 

there  also  a  pig?" 

"Si  madame  veut  descendre  a  la  cave— 

'You  never  keep  a  pig  in  the  cellar?" 
exclaimed. 

"Comme  jambon,"  said  Antoine — calm,  per- 
fect of  manner,  without  a  trace  of  emotion. 

And  there  sure  enough  I  was  presently 
proudly  shown  by  Mrs.  Antoine,  whose 
feelings  are  less  invisible  than  her  husband's, 
hanging  from  the  cellar  ceiling  on  hooks  that 
which  had  once  been  pig.  Several  pigs; 
though  she  talked  as  if  there  had  never  been 
more  than  one.  It  may  be  so,  of  course,  but 
if  it  is  so  it  must  have  had  a  great  many  legs. 

"  Un  pore  centipede,"  I  remarked,  thought- 
fully, gazing  upward  at  the  forest  of  hams. 

Over  the  thin  ice  of  this  comment  she  slid, 
however,  in  a  voluble  description  of  how  when 
the  armistice  was  signed  she  and  Antoine 
had  instantly  fallen  upon  and  slain  the  pig- 
pig  still  in  the  singular — expecting  Madame's 
arrival  after  that  felicitous  event  at  any 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  53 

minute,  and  comprehending  that  un  pore 
vivant  pourrait  der  anger  madame,  mais  que 
mort  il  ne  fait  rien  a  personne  que  du  plaisir. 
And  she,  too,  gazed  upward,  but  with  affection 
and  pride. 

There  remained  then  nothing  to  do  but 
round  off  these  various  transactions  by  a 
graceful  and  grateful  paying  for  them. 
Which  I  did  to-day,  Antoine  presenting  the 
bills,  accompanied  by  complicated  calcula- 
tions and  deductions  of  the  market  price  of 
the  milk  and  butter  and  eggs  he  and  Mrs. 
Antoine  would  otherwise  have  consumed 
during  the  past  years. 

I  didn't  look  too  closely  into  what  the  pig 
had  cost — his  price,  as  my  eye  skimmed  over 
it  was  obviously  the  price  of  something 
plural;  but  my  eye  only  skimmed,  it  didn't 
dwell.  Always  Antoine  and  I  have  behaved 
to  each  other  like  gentlemen. 

August  IQth. 

I  wonder  why  I  write  all  this.  Is  it  because 
it  is  so  like  talking  to  a  friend  at  the  end  of 
the  day,  and  telling  him,  who  is  interested 
and  loves  to  hear,  everything  one  has  done? 
I  suppose  it  is  that;  and  that  I  want, 
besides,  to  pin  down  these  queer  days  as  they 


54  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

pass — days  so  utterly  unlike  any  I  ever  had 
before.  I  want  to  hold  them  a  minute  in 
my  hand  and  look  at  them  before  letting  them 
drop  away  for  ever.  Then,  perhaps,  in  lots 
of  years,  when  I  have  half  forgotten  what 
brought  me  up  here  and  don't  mind  a  bit 
about  anything  except  to  laugh — to  laugh 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  wise  old  thing  at  the 
misunderstandings  and  mistakes  and  failures 
that  brought  me  so  near  shipwreck,  and  yet 
underneath  were  still  somehow  packed  with 
love — I'll  open  this  and  read  it,  and  I  daresay 
quote  that  Psalm  about  going  through  the 
vale  of  misery  and  using  it  as  a  well,  and  be 
quite  pleasantly  entertained. 

August  13th. 

If  one  sets  one's  face  westward  and  goes 
on  and  on  along  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
refusing  either  to  climb  higher  or  go  lower, 
and  having  therefore  to  take  things  as  they 
come  and  somehow  get  through — roaring 
torrents,  sudden  ravines,  huge  trees  blown 
down  in  a  forgotten  blizzard  and  lying  right 
across  one's  way;  all  the  things  that  moun- 
tains have  up  their  sleeve  waiting  for  one- 
one  comes,  after  two  hours  of  walk  so  varied 
as  to  include  scowling  rocks  and  gloomy 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  55 

forests,  bright  stretches  of  delicious  grass 
full  of  flowers,  bits  of  hayfield,  clusters  of 
fruit-trees,  wide,  sun-flooded  spaces  with 
nothing  between  one  apparently  and  the 
great  snowy  mountains,  narrow  paths  where 
it  is  hardly  light  enough  to  see,  smells  of 
resin  and  hot  fir  needles,  smells  of  traveller's 
joy,  smells  of  just  cut  grass,  smells  of  just 
sawn  wood,  smells  of  water  tumbling  over 
stones,  muddy  smells  where  the  peasants 
have  turned  some  of  the  torrent  away  through 
shallow  channels  into  their  fields,  honey 
smells,  hot  smells,  cold  smells — after  two 
hours  of  this  walking,  which  would  be  tiring 
because  of  the  constant  difficulty  of  the 
ground  if  it  weren't  for  the  odd  way  the  air 
has  here  of  carrying  you,  of  making  you  feel 
as  though  you  were  being  lifted  along,  one 
comes  at  last  to  the  edge  of  a  steep  slope 
where  there  is  a  little  group  of  larches. 

Then  one  sits  down. 

These  larches  are  at  the  very  end  of  a  long 
tongue  into  which  the  mountain  one  started 
on  has  somehow  separated,  and  it  is  under 
them  that  one  eats  one's  dinner  of  hard- 
boiled  egg  and  bread  and  butter  and  sits 
staring,  while  one  does  so,  in  much  astonish- 
ment at  the  view.  For  it  is  an  incrediblv 


56  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

beautiful  view  from  here,  of  an  entirely 
different  range  of  mountains  from  the  one 
seen  from  my  terrace;  and  the  valley,  with 
its  twisting,  tiny  silver  thread  that  I  know  is 
a  great  rushing  river,  has  strange,  abrupt, 
isolated  hills  scattered  over  it  that  appear 
each  to  have  a  light  and  colour  of  its  own, 
with  no  relation  to  the  light  and  colour  of  the 
mountains. 

When  first  I  happened  on  this  place  the 
building  of  my  house  had  already  been 
started,  and  it  was  too  late  to  run  to  the 
architect  and  say:  Here  and  here  only  will 
I  live.  But  I  did  for  a  wild  moment,  so 
great  was  the  beauty  I  had  found,  hope  that 
perhaps  Swiss  houses  might  be  like  those 
Norwegian  ones  one  reads  about  that  take  to 
pieces  and  can  be  put  up  again  somewhere 
else  when  you've  got  bored,  and  I  remember 
scrambling  back  hastily  in  heat  and  excite- 
ment to  ask  him  whether  this  were  so.  He 
said  it  wasn't,  and  seemed  even  a  little 
ruffled,  if  so  calm  a  man  were  capable  of 
ruffling,  that  I  should  suppose  he  would  build 
anything  that  could  come  undone. 

'This  house,"  he  said,  pointing  at  the 
hopeless-looking  mass  that  ultimately  be- 
came so  adorable,  "is  built  for  posterity.  It 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  57 

is  on  a  rock,  and  will  partake  of  the  same 
immovability." 

And  when  I  told  him  of  the  place  I  had 
found,  the  exquisite  place,  more  beautiful 
than  a  dream  and  a  hundred  times  more 
beautiful  than  the  place  we  had  started 
building  on,  he,  being  a  native  of  the  district, 
hardy  on  his  legs  on  Sundays  and  accordingly 
acquainted  with  every  inch  of  ground  within 
twenty  miles,  told  me  that  it  was  so  remote 
from  villages,  so  inaccessible  by  any  road, 
that  it  was  suited  as  a  habitation  only  to 
goats. 

"Only  goats,"  he  said  with  finality,  waving 
his  hand,  "could  dwell  there,  and  for  goats  I 
do  not  build." 

So  that  my  excitement  cooled  down  before 
the  inevitable,  and  I  have  lived  to  be  very 
glad  the  house  is  where  it  is  and  not  where, 
for  a  few  wild  hours,  I  wanted  it;  for  now  I 
can  go  to  the  other  when  I  am  in  a  beauty 
mood  and  see  it  every  time  with  fresh  wonder, 
while  if  I  lived  there  I  would  have  got  used 
to  it  long  ago,  and  my  ardour  been,  like  other 
ardours,  turned  by  possession  into  compla- 
cency. Or,  to  put  it  a  little  differently,  the 
house  here  is  like  an  amiable  wife  to  whom  it 
is  comfortable  to  come  back  for  meals  and 


58  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

sleeping  purposes,  and  the  other  is  a  secret 
love,  to  be  visited  only  on  the  crest  of  an 
ecstasy. 

To-day  I  took  a  hard-boiled  egg  and  some 
bread  and  butter  and  visited  my  secret  love. 

The  hard-boiled  egg  doesn't  seem  much  like 
an  ecstasy,  but  it  is  a  very  good  foundation 
for  one.  There  is  great  virtue  in  a  hard- 
boiled  egg.  It  holds  one  down,  yet  not  too 
heavily.  It  satisfies  without  inflaming. 
Sometimes,  after  days  of  living  on  fruit  and 
bread,  a  slice  of  underdone  meat  put  in  a 
sandwich  and  eaten  before  I  knew  what  I 
was  doing,  has  gone  straight  to  my  head  in 
exactly  the  way  wine  would,  and  I  have  seen 
the  mountains  double,  and  treble  themselves, 
besides  not  keeping  still,  in  a  very  surprising 
and  distressing  way,  utterly  ruinous  to  rap- 
tures. So  now  I  distrust  sandwiches  and 
will  not  take  them;  and  all  that  goes  with 
me  is  the  hard-boiled  egg.  Oh,  and  apricots, 
when  I  can  get  them.  I  forgot  the  apricots. 
I  took  a  handful  to-day,  big,  beautiful  rosy- 
golden  ones,  grow7n  in  the  hot  villages  of  the 
valley,  a  very  apricotty  place.  And  that 
every  part  of  me  should  have  sustenance  I 
also  took  Law's  "Serious  Call." 

He  went  because  he's  the  thinnest  book  I've 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  59 

got  on  my  shelves  that  has  at  the  same  time 
been  praised  by  Dr.  Johnson.  I've  got 
several  others  that  Dr.  Johnson  has  praised, 
such  as  Ogden  on  "Prayer,"  but  their  bulk, 
even  if  their  insides  were  attractive,  makes 
them  have  to  stay  at  home.  Johnson,  I 
remembered,  as  I  weighed  Law  thoughtfully 
in  my  hand  and  felt  how  thin  he  was,  said  of 
the  "Serious  Call"  that  he  took  it  up  expecting 
it  to  be  a  dull  book,  and  perhaps  to  laugh  at 
it—  "But  I  found  Law  quite  an  overmatch 
for  me."  He  certainly  would  be  an  over- 
match for  me,  I  knewr,  should  I  try  to  stand 
up  to  him,  but  that  was  not  my  intention. 
What  I  wanted  was  a  slender  book  that  yet 
would  have  enough  entertainment  in  it  to 
nourish  me  all  day,  and  opening  the  "Serious 
Call"  I  was  caught  at  once  by  the  story  of 
Octavius,  a  learned  and  ingenious  man  who, 
feeling  that  he  wasn't  going  to  live  much 
longer,  told  the  friends  hanging  on  his  lips 
attentive  to  the  wisdom  that  would,  they  were 
sure,  drop  out,  that  in  the  decay  of  nature 
in  which  he  found  himself  he  had  left  off  all 
taverns  and  was  now  going  to  be  nice  in  what 
lie  drank,  so  that  he  was  resolved  to  furnish 
his  cellar  with  a  little  of  the  very  best  what- 
ever it  might  cost.  And  hardly  had  he 


60  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

delivered  himself  of  this  declaration  than 
"he  fell  ill,  was  committed  to  a  nurse,  and 
had  his  eyes  closed  by  her  before  his  fresh 
parcel  of  wine  came  in." 

The  effect  of  this  on  someone  called 
Eugenius  was  to  send  him  home  a  new  man, 
full  of  resolutions  to  devote  himself  wholly  to 
God;  for" I  never,"  says  Eugenius,  "was  so 
deeply  affected  with  the  wisdom  and  import- 
ance of  religion  as  when  I  saw  how  poorly 
and  meanly  the  learned  Octavius  was  to  leave 
the  world  through  the  want  of  it." 

So  Law  went  with  me,  and  his  vivacious 
pages — the  story  of  Octavius  is  but  one  of 
many;  there  is  Matilda  and  her  unhappy 
daughters  ("The  eldest  daughter  lived  as  long 
as  she  could  under  this  discipline,"  but  found 
she  couldn't  after  her  twentieth  year  and 
died,  "her  entrails  much  hurt  by  being 
crushed  together  with  her  stays");  Eusebia 
and  her  happy  daughters,  who  were  so  beauti- 
fully brought  up  that  they  had  the  satisfaction 
of  dying  virgins;  Lepidus,  struck  down  as  he 
was  dressing  himself  for  a  feast;  the  admir- 
able Miranda,  whose  meals  were  carefully 
kept  down  to  exactly  enough  to  give  her 
proper  strength  to  lift  eyes  and  hands  to 
heaven,  so  that  "Miranda  will  never  have  her 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  61 

eyes  swell  with  fatness  or  pant  under  a  heavy 
load  of  flesh  until  she  has  changed  her  reli- 
gion"; Mundamus,  who  if  he  saw  a  book  of 
devotion  passed  it  by;  Classicus,  who  openly 
and  shamelessly  preferred  learning  to  devo- 
tion— these  vivacious  pages  greatly  enlivened 
and  adorned  my  day.  But  I  did  feel  as  I 
came  home  at  the  end  of  it  that  Dr. 
Johnson,  for  whom  no  one  has  more  love 
and  less  respect  than  I,  ought  to  have 
spent  some  at  least  of  his  earlier  years, 
when  he  was  still  accessible  to  reason,  with, 
say,  Voltaire. 

Now  I  am  going  to  bed,  footsore  but  glad, 
for  this  picnic  to-day  was  a  test.  I  wanted 
to  see  how  far  on  I  have  got  in  facing  memo- 
ries. When  I  set  out  I  pretended  to  myself 
that  I  was  going  from  sheer  considerateness 
for  servants,  because  I  wished  Mrs.  Antoine 
to  have  a  holiday  from  cooking  my  dinner, 
but  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  I  was  making, 
in  trepidation  and  secret  doubt,  a  test.  For 
the  way  to  this  place  of  larches  bristles  with 
happy  memories.  They  would  be  sitting 
waiting  for  me,  I  knew,  at  every  bush  and 
corner  in  radiant  rows.  If  only  they  wouldn't 
be  radiant,  I  thought,  I  wouldn't  mind. 
The  way,  I  thought,  would  have  been  easier 


62  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

if  it  had  been  punctuated  with  remembered 
quarrels.  Only  then  I  wouldn't  have  gone  to 
it  at  all,  for  my  spirit  shudders  away  from 
places  where  there  has  been  unkindness. 
It  is  the  happy  record  of  this  little  house  that 
never  yet  have  its  walls  heard  an  unkind 
word  or  a  rude  word,  and  not  once  has 
anybody  cried  in  it.  All  the  houses  I  have 
lived  in  except  this  had  their  sorrows,  and 
one  at  least  had  worse  things  than  sorrows; 
but  this  one,  my  little  house  of  peace  hung 
up  in  the  sunshine  well  on  the  way  to  heaven, 
is  completely  free  from  stains — nothing  has 
ever  lived  in  it  that  wasn't  kind.  And  I  shall 
not  count  the  wretchedness  I  dragged  up 
with  me  three  weeks  ago  as  a  break  in  this 
record,  as  a  smudge  on  its  serenity,  but  only 
as  a  shadow  passing  across  the  sun.  Because, 
however  beaten  down  I  was  and  miserable, 
I  brought  no  anger  with  me  and  no  resent- 
ment. Unkindness  has  still  not  come  into 
the  house. 

Now  I  am  going  very  happy  to  bed,  for  I 
have  passed  the  test.  The  whole  of  the  walk 
to  the  larches,  and  the  whole  of  the  way  back, 
and  all  the  time  I  was  sitting  there,  what  I 
felt  was  simply  gratitude — gratitude  for  the 
beautiful  past  times  I  have  had.  I  found  I 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  63 

couldn't  help  it.  It  was  as  natural  as 
breathing.  I  wasn't  lonely.  Everybody  I 
have  loved  and  shall  never  see  again  was 
with  me.  And  all  day,  the  whole  of  the 
wonderful  day  of  beauty,  I  was  able  in  that 
bright  companionship  to  forget  the  imme- 
diate grief,  the  aching  wretchedness,  that 
brought  me  up  here  to  my  mountains  as  a 
last  hope. 

August  14>th. 

To-day  it  is  my  birthday,  so  I  thought  I 
would  expiate  it  by  doing  some  useful  work. 

It  is  the  first  birthday  I've  ever  been  alone, 
with  nobody  to  say  Bless  you.  I  like  being 
blessed  on  my  birthday,  seen  off  into  my  new 
year  with  encouragement  and  smiles.  Per- 
haps, I  thought,  while  I  dressed,  Antoine 
would  remember.  After  all,  I  used  to  have 
birthdays  when  I  was  here  before,  and  he 
must  have  noticed  the  ripple  of  excitement 
that  lay  along  the  day,  how  it  was  wreathed 
in  flowers  from  breakfast-time  on  and  dotted 
thick  with  presents.  Perhaps  he  would  re- 
member and  wish  me  luck.  Perhaps  if  he 
remembered  he  would  tell  his  wife,  and  she 
would  wish  me  luck,  too.  I  did  very  much 
long  to-day  to  be  wished  luck. 


64  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

But  Antoine,  if  he  had  ever  known,  had 
obviously  forgotten.  He  was  doing  some- 
thing to  the  irises  when  I  came  down,  and 
though  I  went  out  and  lingered  round  him 
before  beginning  breakfast  he  took  no  notice; 
he  just  went  on  with  the  irises.  So  I  daresay 
I  looked  a  little  wry,  for  I  did  feel  rather 
afraid  I  might  be  going  to  be  lonely. 

This,  then,  I  thought,  giving  myself  a 
hitch  of  determination,  was  the  moment  for 
manual  labour.  As  I  drank  nay  coffee  I 
decided  to  celebrate  the  day  by  giving  both 
the  Antoines  a  holiday  and  doing  the  work 
myself.  Why  shouldn't  my  birthday  be 
celebrated  by  somebody  else  having  a  good 
time?  What  did  it  after  all  matter  who  had 
the  good  time  so  long  as  somebody  did? 
The  Antoines  should  have  a  holiday,  and  I 
would  work.  So  would  I  defend  my  thoughts 
from  memories  that  might  bite.  So  would  I, 
by  the  easy  path  of  perspiration,  find  peace. 

Antoine,  however,  didn't  seem  to  want  a 
holiday.  I  had  difficulty  with  him.  He 
wasn't  of  course  surprised  when  I  told  him 
he  had  got  one,  because  he  never  is,  but  he 
said,  with  that  level  intonation  that  gives  his 
conversation  so  noticeable  a  calm,  that  it  was 
the  day  for  cutting  the  lawn. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  65 

I  said  I  would  cut  the  lawn;  I  knew  about 
lawns;  I  had  been  brought  up  entirely  on 
lawns — I  believe  I  told  him  I  had  been  born 
on  one,  in  my  eagerness  to  forestall  his  objec- 
tions and  get  him  to  go. 

He  said  that  such  work  would  be  too  hot 
for  Madame  in  the  sort  of  weather  we  were 
having;  and  I  said  that  no  work  on  an  object 
so  small  as  our  lawn  could  be  too  hot. 
Besides,  I  liked  being  hot,  I  explained— 
again  with  eagerness — I  wanted  to  be  hot, 
I  was  happy  when  I  wras  hot.  "J'aime  beau- 
coup,""  I  said,  not  stopping  in  my  hurry  to 
pick  my  words,  and  anyhow  imperfect  in 
French,  "La  sueur." 

I  believe  I  ought  to  have  said  la  tran- 
spiration, the  other  word  being  held  in  slight 
if  any  esteem  as  a  word  for  ladies,  but  I  still 
more  believe  that  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  any- 
thing about  it  at  all.  I  don't  know,  of  course, 
because  of  Antoine's  immobility  of  expres- 
sion; but  in  spite  of  this  not  varying  at  what 
I  had  said  by  the  least  shadow  of  a  flicker  I 
yet  somehow  felt,  it  was  yet  somehow  con- 
veyed to  me,  that  perhaps  in  French  one 
doesn't  perspire,  or  if  one  does  one  doesn't 
talk  about  it.  Not  if  one  is  a  lady.  Not  if  one 
is  Madame.  Not,  to  ascend  still  further  the 


66  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

scale  of  my  self-respect  enforcing  attributes,  if 
one  is  that  dignified  object  the  patrone. 

I  find  it  difficult  to  be  dignified.  When  I 
try,  I  overdo  it.  Always  my  dignity  is  either 
over  or  under  done,  but  its  chief  condition  is 
that  of  being  under  done.  Antoine,  however, 
very  kindly  helps  me  up  to  the  position  he 
has  decided  I  ought  to  fill,  by  his  own  un- 
alterable calm.  I  have  never  seen  him  smile. 
I  don't  believe  he  could  without  cracking,  of 
so  unruffled  a  glassiness  is  his  countenance. 

Once,  before  the  war — everything  I  have 
done  that  has  been  cheerful  and  undesirable 
was  before  the  war;  I've  been  nothing  but 
exemplary  and  wretched  since — I  was  un- 
dignified. We  dressed  up;  and  on  the  advice 
of  my  friends — I  now  see  that  it  was  bad 
advice — I  allowed  myself  to  be  dressed  as 
a  devil;  I,  the  patrone;  I,  Madame.  It  was 
true  I  was  only  a  little  devil,  quite  one  of  the 
minor  ones,  what  the  Germans  would  call  a 
Hausteufelchen;  but  a  devil  I  was.  And 
going  upstairs  again  unexpectedly,  to  fetch 
my  tail  which  had  been  forgotten,  I  saw 
at  the  very  end  of  the  long  passage  down 
which  I  had  to  go  Antoine  collecting  the 
day's  boots. 

He    stood    aside    and    waited.     I    couldn't 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  67 

go  back,  because  that  would  have  looked  as 
though  I  were  doing  something  I  knew  I 
oughtn't  to.  Therefore  I  proceeded. 

The  passage  was  long  and  well  lit.  Down 
the  whole  of  it  I  had  to  go,  while  Antoine  at 
the  end  stood  and  waited.  I  tried  to  advance 
with  dignity.  I  tried  to  hope  he  wouldn't 
recognize  me.  I  tried  to  feel  sure  he  wouldn't. 
How  could  he?  I  was  quite  black,  except 
for  a  wig  that  looked  like  orange-coloured 
flames.  But  when  I  got  to  the  doors  at  the 
end  it  was  the  one  to  my  bedroom  that 
Antoine  threw  open,  and  past  him  I  had  to 
march  while  he  stood  gravely  aside.  And 
strangely  enough,  what  I  remember  feeling 
most  acutely  was  a  quite  particular  humili- 
ation and  shame  that  I  hadn't  got  my  tail  on. 

"  C'est  que  fai  oublie  ma  queue  .  .  ."  I 
found  myself  stammering,  with  a  look  of 
agonized  deprecation  and  apology  at  him. 

And  even  then  Antoine  wasn't  surprised. 

Well,  where  was  I?  Oh,  yes — at  the 
transpiration.  Antoine  let  it  pass  over  him, 
as  I  have  said,  without  a  ruffle,  and  drew  my 
attention  to  the  chickens  who  would  have  to 
be  fed  and  the  cow  who  would  have  to  be 
milked.  Perhaps  the  cow  might  be  milked 
on  his  return,  but  the  chickens— 


68  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Antoine  was  softening. 

I  said  quickly  that  all  he  had  to  do  would 
be  to  put  the  chickens'  food  ready  and  I 
would  administer  it,  and  as  for  the  cow,  why 
not  let  her  have  a  rest  for  once,  why  not  let 
her  for  once  not  be  robbed  of  what  was  after 
all  her  own?  And  to  cut  the  conversation 
short,  and  determined  that  my  birthday 
should  not  pass  without  somebody  getting 
a  present,  I  ran  upstairs  and  fetched  down 
a  twenty -franc  note  and  pressed  it  into 
Antoine's  hand  and  said  breathlessly  in  a 
long  and  voluble  sentence  that  began  with 
Voila,  but  didn't  keep  it  up  at  that  high  level, 
that  the  twenty  francs  were  for  his  expenses 
for  himself  and  Mrs.  Antoine  down  in  the 
valley,  and  that  I  hoped  they  would  enjoy 
themselves,  and  would  he  remember  me  very 
kindly  to  his  maman,  to  whom  he  would  no 
doubt  pay  a  little  visit  during  the  course  of 
what  I  trusted  would  be  a  long,  crowded,  and 
agreeable  day. 

They  went  off  ultimately,  but  with  reluct- 
ance. Completely  undignified,  I  stood  on  the 
low  wall  of  the  terrace  and  waved  to  them  as 
they  turned  the  corner  at  the  bottom  of  the 
path. 

"  Mille  felicitations  /"  I  cried,  anxious  that 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  C9 

somebody  should  be  wished  happiness  on  my 
birthday. 

"If  I  am  going  to  have  a  lonely  birthday  it 
shall  be  thoroughly  lonely,"  I  said  grimly  to 
myself  as,  urged  entirely  by  my  volition,  the 
Antoines  disappeared  and  left  me  to  the 
solitary  house. 

I  decided  to  begin  my  day's  work  by  mak- 
ing my  bed,  and  went  upstairs  full  of  resolu- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Antoine,  however,  had  done  that; 
no  doubt  while  I  was  arguing  with  Antoine. 

The  next  thing,  then,  I  reflected,  was  to 
tidy  away  breakfast,  so  I  came  downstairs 
again,  full  of  more  resolution. 

Mrs.  Antoine,  however,  had  done  that,  too; 
no  doubt  while  I  was  still  arguing  with 
Antoine. 

Well,  then,  oughtn't  I  to  begin  to  do  some- 
thing with  potatoes?  With  a  view  to  the 
dinner-hour?  Put  them  on,  or  something? 
I  was  sure  the  putting  on  of  potatoes  would 
make  me  perspire.  I  longed  to  start  my 
transpiration  in  case  by  any  chance,  if  I 
stayed  too  long  inactive  and  cool,  I  should 
notice  how  very  silent  and  empty 

I  hurried  into  the  kitchen,  a  dear  little 
place  of  white  tiles  and  copper  saucepans, 


70  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  found  pots  simmering  gently  on  the 
stove:  potatoes  in  one,  and  in  the  other  bits 
of  something  that  well  might  be  chicken. 
Also,  on  a  tray  was  the  rest  of  everything 
needed  for  my  dinner.  All  I  would  have  to 
do  would  be  to  eat  it. 

Baulked,  but  still  full  of  resolution,  I  set 
out  in  search  of  the  lawn-mower.  It  couldn't 
be  far  away,  because  nothing  is  able  to  be 
anything  but  close  on  my  narrow  ledge  of 
rock. 

Mou-Mou,  sitting  on  his  haunches  in  the 
shade  at  the  back  of  the  house,  watched  me 
with  interest  as  I  tried  to  open  the  sorts  of 
outside  doors  that  looked  as  if  they  shut  in 
lawn-mowers. 

They  were  all  locked. 

The  magnificent  Mou-Mou,  who  manages 
to  imitate  Antoine's  trick  of  not  being 
surprised,  though  he  hasn't  yet  quite  caught 
his  air  of  absence  of  curiosity,  got  up  after 
the  first  door  and  lounged  after  me  as  I  tried 
the  others.  He  could  do  this  because, 
though  tied  up,  Antoine  has  ingeniously 
provided  for  his  exercise,  and  at  the  same 
time  for  the  circumvention  of  burglars,  by 
fixing  an  iron  bar  the  whole  length  of  the  wall 
behind  the  house  and  fastening  Mou-Mou's 


71 

chain  to  it  by  a  loose  ring.  So  that  he  can 
run  along  it  whenever  he  feels  inclined;  and 
a  burglar,  having  noted  the  kennel  at  the 
east  end  of  this  wall  and  Mou-Mou  sitting 
chained  up  in  front  of  it,  would  find,  on 
preparing  to  attack  the  house  at  its  west 
and  apparently  dogless  end,  that  the  dog 
was  nevertheless  there  before  him.  A  rattle 
and  a  slide,  and  there  would  be  Mou-Mou. 
Very  moroZe-shaking.  Very  freezing  in  its 
unexpectedness  to  the  burglar's  blood,  and 
paralyzing  to  his  will  to  sin.  Thus  Antoine, 
thinking  of  everything,  had  calculated.  There 
hasn't  ever  been  a  burglar,  but,  as  he  said  of 
his  possible  suppurating  wounds  "//  ne  faut 
pas  attendre  quon  les  a  pour  se  procurer  le 
reniede" 

Mou-Mou  accordingly  came  with  me  as  I 
went  up  and  down  the  back  of  the  house 
trying  the  range  of  outside  doors.  I  think 
he  thought  at  last  it  was  a  game,  for  as  each 
door  wouldn't  open  and  I  paused  a  moment 
thwarted,  he  gave  a  loud  double  bark,  as 
one  who  should  in  the  Psalms  after  each 
verse  say  Selah. 

Antoine  had  locked  up  the  lawn-mower. 
The  mowing  was  to  be  put  oft'  till  to-morrow 
rather  than  that  Madame  in  the  heat  should 


72 

mow.  I  appreciated  the  kindness  of  his  in- 
tentions, but  for  all  that  was  much  vexed 
by  being  baulked.  On  my  birthday,  too. 
Baulked  of  the  one  thing  I  really  wanted, 
la  transpiration.  It  didn't  seem  much  to  ask 
on  my  birthday,  I  who  used  without  so  much 
as  lifting  a  finger  to  acquire  on  such  occasions 
quite  other  beads. 

Undecided,  I  stood  looking  round  the  tidy 
yard  for  something  I  could  be  active  over, 
and  Mou-Mou  sat  upright  on  his  huge 
haunches  watching  me.  He  is  so  big  that 
in  this  position  our  heads  are  on  a  level. 
He  took  advantage  of  this  by  presently 
raising  his  tongue — it  was  already  out,  hang- 
ing in  the  heat — as  I  still  didn't  move  or  say 
anything,  and  giving  my  face  an  enormous 
lick.  So  then  I  went  away,  for  I  didn't  like 
that.  Besides,  I  had  thought  of  something. 

In  the  flower-border  along  the  terrace 
would  be  weeds.  Flower-borders  always  have 
weeds,  and  weeding  is  arduous.  Also,  all 
one  wants  for  weeding  are  one's  own  ten 
fingers,  and  Antoine  couldn't  prevent  my 
using  those.  So  that  was  what  I  would  do- 
bend  down  and  tear  up  weeds,  and  in  this 
way  forget  the  extraordinary  sunlit,  gaping, 
empty  little  house. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  73 

So  great,  however,  had  been  the  unflagging 
diligence  of  Antoine,  and  also  perhaps  so  poor 
and  barren  the  soil,  that  after  half  an  hour's 
search  I  had  only  found  three  weeds,  and 
even  those  I  couldn't  be  sure  about  and  didn't 
know  for  certain  but  what  I  might  be  pulling 
up  some  precious  bit  of  alpine  flora  put  in  on 
purpose  and  cherished  by  Antoine.  All  I 
really  knew  was  that  what  I  tore  up  wasn't 
irises,  and  wasn't  delphiniums,  and  wasn't 
pansies;  so  that,  I  argued,  it  must  be  weeds. 
Anyhow,  I  pulled  three  alien  objects  out  and 
laid  them  in  a  neat  row  to  show  Antoine. 
Then  I  sat  down  and  rested. 

The  search  for  them  had  made  me  hot,  but 
that  of  course  wouldn't  last.  It  was  ages 
before  I  need  go  and  feed  the  chickens.  I 
sat  on  the  terrace  wall  wondering  what  I 
could  do  next.  It  was  a  pity  that  the 
Antoines  were  so  admirable.  One  could 
overdo  virtue.  A  little  less  zeal,  the  least 
judicious  neglect  on  their  part,  and  I  would 
have  found  something  useful  to  do. 

The  place  was  quite  extraordinarily  silent. 
There  wasn't  a  sound.  Even  Mou-Mou 
round  at  the  back,  languid  in  the  heat,  didn't 
move.  The  immense  light  beat  on  the 
varnished  wooden  face  of  the  house  arid  on 


74 

the  shut  shutters  of  all  the  unused  rooms. 
Those  rooms  have  been  shut  like  that  for  five 
years.  The  shutters  are  blistered  with  the 
fierce  sun  of  five  summers  and  the  no  less 
fierce  sun  of  five  winters.  Their  colour, 
once  a  lively,  swaggering  blue,  has  faded  to  a 
dull  gray.  I  sat  staring  up  at  them.  Sup- 
pose they  were  suddenly  to  be  opened  from 
inside,  and  faces  that  used  to  live  in  them 
looked  out? 

A  faint  shudder  trickled  along  my  spine. 

Well,  but  wouldn't  I  be  glad  really? 
Wouldn't  they  be  the  dearest  ghosts?  That 
room  at  the  end,  for  instance,  so  tightly  shut 
up  now,  that  was  where  my  brother  used  to 
sleep  when  he  came  out  for  his  holidays. 
Wouldn't  I  love  to  see  him  look  out  at  me? 
How  gaily  he  used  to  arrive — in  such  spirits 
because  he  had  got  rid  of  work  for  a  bit,  and 
for  a  series  of  divine  weeks  was  going  to  stretch 
himself  in  the  sun !  The  first  thing  he  always 
did  when  he  got  up  to  his  room  was  to  hurry 
out  on  to  its  little  balcony  to  see  if  the  heav- 
enly view  of  the  valley  toward  the  east  with 
the  chain  of  snow  mountains  across  the  end 
were  still  as  heavenly  as  he  remembered  it;  and 
I  could  see  him  with  his  head  thrown  back, 
breathing  deep  breaths  of  the  lovely  air, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  75 

adoring  it,  radiant  with  delight  to  have 
got  back  to  it,  calling  down  to  me  to  come 
quick  and  look,  for  it  could  never  have  been 
so  beautiful  as  at  that  moment  and  could 
never  possibly  be  so  beautiful  again. 

I  loved  him  very  much.  I  don't  believe  any- 
body ever  had  so  dear  a  brother.  He  was  so 
quick  to  appreciate  and  understand,  so  slow 
to  anger,  so  clear  of  brain  and  gentle  of  heart. 
Of  course  he  was  killed.  Such  people  always 
are  if  there  is  any  killing  going  on  anywhere. 
He  volunteered  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
war,  and  though  his  fragility  saved  him  for  a 
long  time  he  was  at  last  swept  in.  That  was 
in  March,  1918.  He  was  killed  the  first  week. 
I  loved  him  very  much,  and  he  loved  me. 
He  called  me  sweet  names,  and  forgave  me 
all  my  trespasses. 

And  in  the  next  room  to  that — oh,  well, 
I'm  not  going  to  dig  out  every  ghost.  I  can't 
really  write  about  some  of  them,  the  pain 
hurts  too  much.  I've  not  been  into  any  of 
the  shut  rooms  since  I  came  back.  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  Here  out  of  doors  I  can  take  a  larger 
view,  not  mind  going  to  the  places  of  memo- 
ries; but  I  know  those  rooms  will  have  been 
kept  as  carefully  unchanged  by  Antoine  as 
I  found  mine.  I  daren't  even  think  of  them. 


76  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  had  to  get  up  off  the  wall  and  come  away 
from  staring  up  at  those  shutters,  for  suddenly 
I  found  myself  right  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
dreadful  pit  I'm  always  so  afraid  of  tumbling 
into — the  great,  black,  cold,  empty  pit  of 
horror,  of  realization. 

That's  why  I've  been  writing  all  this,  just 
so  as  not  to  think.  .  .  . 

Bedtime. 

I  must  put  down  what  happened  after 
that.  I  ought  to  be  in  bed,  but  I  must  put 
down  how  my  birthday  ended. 

Well,  there  I  was  sitting,  trying  by  writing 
to  defend  myself  against  the  creeping  fear  of 
the  silence  round  me  and  the  awareness  of 
those  shut  rooms  upstairs,  when  Mou-Mou 
barked.  He  barked  suddenly  and  furiously; 
and  the  long  screech  of  his  chain  showed  that 
he  was  rushing  along  the  wall  to  the  other 
side  of  the  house. 

Instantly  my  thoughts  became  wholesome. 
I  jumped  up.  Here  was  the  burglar  at  last. 
I  flew  round  to  greet  him.  Anything  was 
better  than  those  shutters  and  that  hot, 
sunlit  silence.  Between  my  departure  from 
the  terrace  and  my  arrival  at  the  other  side 
of  the  house  I  had  had  time,  so  quickly  did 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  77 

my  restored  mind  work,  to  settle  that  who- 
ever it  was,  burglar  or  not,  I  was  going  to 
make  friends.  If  it  really  were  a  burglar  I 
would  adopt  the  line  the  bishop  took  toward 
Jean  Valjean  and  save  him  from  the  sin  of 
theft  by  making  him  a  present  of  everything 
he  wished  to  take — conduct  which  perhaps 
might  save  me  as  well,  supposing  he  was  the 
kind  of  burglar  who  would  want  to  strangle 
opposition.  Also,  burglar  or  no  burglar,  I 
would  ask  him  to  dinner;  compel  him,  in 
fact,  to  come  in  and  share  my  birthday 
chicken. 

What  I  saw  when  I  got  round,  standing 
just  out  of  reach  of  the  leaping  Mou-Mou  on 
the  top  of  the  avalanche  wall,  looking  down 
at  him  with  patience  rather  than  timidity, 
holding  their  black  skirts  back  in  case  an 
extra  leap  of  his  should  reach  them,  were  two 
women.  Strangers,  not  natives.  Perhaps 
widows.  But  anyhow  people  who  had  been 
bereaved. 

I  immediately  begged  them  to  come  in. 
The  relief  and  refreshment  of  seeing  them! 
Two  human  beings  of  obvious  respectability, 
warm  flesh  and  blood  persons,  not  burglars, 
not  ghosts,  not  even  of  the  sex  one  associates 
with  depredation — just  decent,  alive  women, 


78  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

complete  in  every  detail,  even  to  each  carrying 
an  umbrella.  They  might  have  been  stand- 
ing on  the  curb  in  Oxford  Street  waiting  to 
hail  an  omnibus,  so  complete  were  they,  so 
prepared  in  their  clothes  to  face  the  world. 
Button  boots,  umbrella — I  hadn't  seen  an 
umbrella  since  I  got  here.  What  you  usually 
take  for  a  walk  on  the  mountains  is  a  stout 
stick  with  an  iron  point  to  it;  but,  after  all, 
why  shouldn't  you  take  an  umbrella?  Then 
if  it  rains  you  can  put  it  up,  and  if  the  sun  is 
unbearable  you  can  put  it  up,  too,  and  it,  too, 
has  a  metal  tip  to  it  which  you  can  dig  into  the 
ground  if  you  begin  to  slide  down  precipices. 

"Bon  jour,"  I  said,  eagerly,  looking  up  at 
these  black  silhouettes  against  the  sky.  "  Je 
vous  prie  de  venir  me  voir." 

They  stared  at  me,  still  holding  back  their 
skirts  from  the  leaping  dog. 

Perhaps  they  were  Italians.  I  am  close 
to  Italy,  and  Italian  women  usually  dress  in 
black. 

I  know  some  Italian  words,  and  I  know  the 
one  you  say  when  you  want  somebody  to 
come  in,  so  I  tried  that. 

"  Avanti"  I  said,  breatnlessly. 

They  didn't.  They  still  just  stood  and 
stared. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  79 

They  couldn't  be  English  I  thought  because 
underneath  their  black  skirts  I  could  see  white 
cotton  petticoats  with  embroidery  on  them, 
the  kind  that  England  has  shed  these  fifty 
years,  and  that  is  only  now  to  be  found  in 
remote  and  religious  parts  of  abroad,  like  the 
more  fervent  portions  of  Luthern  Germany. 
Could  they  be  Germans?  The  thought 
distracted  me.  How  could  I  ask  two  Ger- 
mans in?  How  could  I  sit  at  meat  with 
people  whose  male  relations  had  so  recently 
been  killing  mine?  Or  been  killed  by  them, 
perhaps,  judging  from  their  black  clothes. 
Anyhow  there  was  blood  between  us.  But 
how  could  I  resist  asking  them  in,  when  if  I 
didn't  there  would  be  hours  and  hours  of 
intolerable  silence  and  solitude  for  me  till 
evening  brought  those  Antoines  back  who 
never  ought  to  have  been  let  go?  On  my 
birthday,  too. 

I  know  some  German  words — it  is  wonderful 
what  a  lot  of  languages  I  seem  to  know  some 
words  in — so  I  threw  one  up  at  them  between 
two  of  Mou-^\Iou's  barks. 

"Deutsch?"  I  inquired. 

They  ignored  it. 

'That's  all  my  languages,"  I  then  said  in 
despair. 


80  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  only  thing  left  that  I  might  still  try  on 
them  was  to  talk  on  my  fingers,  which  I  can 
a  little;  but  if  they  didn't  happen,  I  reflected, 
to  be  deaf  and  dumb  perhaps  they  wouldn't 
like  that.  So  I  just  looked  up  at  them 
despairingly,  and  spread  out  my  hands  and 
drew  my  shoulders  to  my  ears  as  Mrs. 
Antoine  does  when  she  is  conveying  to  me 
that  the  butter  has  come  to  an  end. 

Whereupon  the  elder  of  the  two — neither 
was  young,  but  one  was  less  young — the  elder 
of  the  two  informed  me  in  calm  English  that 
they  had  lost  their  way,  and  she  asked  me  to 
direct  them  and  also  to  tell  the  dog  not  to 
make  quite  so  much  noise,  in  order  that  they 
might  clearly  understand  what  I  said.  "He 
is  a  fine  fellow,"  she  said,  "but  we  should  be 
glad  if  he  would  make  less  noise." 

The  younger  one  said  nothing,  but  smiled 
at  me.  She  was  pleasant-looking,  this  one, 
flushed  and  nicely  moist  from  walking  in  the 
heat.  The  other  one  was  more  rocky; 
considering  the  weather,  and  the  angle  of  the 
slope  they  had  either  come  up  or  down,  she 
seemed  quite  unnaturally  arid. 

I  seized  Mou-Mou  by  the  collar,  and  ran 
him  along  to  his  kennel. 

"You  stay  there  and  be  good,"   I  said  to 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  81 

him,  though  I  know  he  doesn't  understand 
a  word  of  English.  "He  won't  hurt  you," 
I  assured  the  strangers,  going  back  to  them. 

"Ah,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two;  and  added, 
"I  used  to  say  that  to  people  about  my 
dog." 

They  still  stood  motionless,  holding  their 
skirts,  the  younger  one  smiling  at  me. 

"Won't  you  come  do\vn?"  I  said.     "Come 
in  and   rest  a  little?     I  can  tell  you  better 
about  your  road  if  you'll  come  in.     Look— 
you  go  along  that  path  there,  and  it  brings 
you  round  to  the  front  door." 

"Will  the  dog  be  at  the  front  door?" 
asked  the  elder. 

"Oh,  no — besides,  he  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly." 

"Ah,"  said  the  elder,  eyeing  Mou-Mou 
sideways,  who,  from  his  kennel,  eyed  her, 
"I  used  to  say  that  to  people  about  my  dog." 

The  younger  one  stood  smiling  at  me. 
They  neither  of  them  moved. 

"I'll  come  up  and  bring  you  down,"  I  said, 
hurrying  round  to  the  path  that  leads  from 
the  terrace  on  to  the  slope. 

When  they  saw  that  this  path  did  indeed 
take  them  away  from  Mou-Mou  they  came 
with  me. 

Directly  they  moved  he  made  a  rush  along 


82  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

his  bar,  but  arrived  too  late  and  could  only 
leap  up  and  down  barking. 

"That's  just  high  spirits,"  I  said.  "He  is 
really  most  good-natured  and  affectionate." 

"Ah,"  said  the  elder,  "I  used  to  say  that  to 
people— 

"Mind  those  loose  stones,"  I  interrupted; 
and  I  helped  each  one  down  the  last  crumbly 
bit  on  to  the  terrace. 

They  both  had  black  kid  gloves  on.  More 
than  ever,  as  I  felt  these  warm  gloves  press  my 
hand,  was  I  sure  that  what  they  really  wanted 
was  an  omnibus  along  Oxford  Street. 

Once  on  the  level  and  out  of  sight  of  Mou- 
Mou,  they  walked  with  an  air  of  self-respect. 
Especially  the  elder.  The  younger,  though 
she  had  it,  too,  seemed  rather  to  be  following 
an  example  than  originating  an  attitude. 
Perhaps  they  wTere  related  to  a  Lord  Mayor, 
I  thought.  Or  a  rector.  But  a  Lord  Mayor 
would  l)e  more  likely  to  be  the  cause  of 
that  air  of  glowing  private  background  to 
life. 

They  had  been  up  the  mountain,  the  elder 
told  me,  trying  to  find  somewhere  cool  to 
stay  in,  for  the  valley  this  weather  was  un- 
endurable. They  used  to  know  this  district 
years  ago,  and  recollected  a  pension  right  up 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  83 

in  the  highest  village,  and  after  great  exertions 
and  rising  early  that  morning  they  had 
reached  it  only  to  find  that  it  had  become 
a  resort  for  consumptives.  With  no  pro- 
vision for  the  needs  of  the  passing  tourist; 
with  no  desire,  in  fact,  in  any  way  to  minister 
to  them.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  she  said, 
as  they  sat  on  the  cool  side  of  the  house 
drinking  lemonade  and  eating  biscuits,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  me  and  what  she  described 
with  obvious  gratitude — she  couldn't  guess 
mv  J°y  at  seeing  them  both! — as  my  kind- 
ness, they  would  have  had  somehow  to 
clamber  down  foodless  by  wrong  roads, 
seeing  that  they  had  lost  the  right  one,  to  the 
valley  again,  and  in  what  state  they  would 
have  reentered  that  scorching  and  terrible 
place  she  didn't  like  to  think.  Tired  as  they 
were.  Disappointed,  and  distressingly  hot. 
How  very  pleasant  it  was  up  here.  What  a 
truly  delightful  spot.  Such  air.  Such  a 
view.  And  how  agreeable  and  unexpected 
to  come  across  one  of  one's  own  country- 
women. 

To  all  this  the  younger  in  silence  smiled 
agreement. 

They  had  been  so  long  abroad,  continued 
the  elder,  that  they  felt  greatly  fatigued  by 


84  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

foreigners,  who  were  so  very  prevalent.  In 
their  pension  there  were  nothing  but 
foreigners  and  flies.  The  house  wasn't  by 
any  chance — no,  of  course  it  couldn't  be, 
but  it  wasn't  by  any  chance — her  voice  had  a 
sudden  note  of  hope  in  it — a  pension? 

I  shook  my  head  and  laughed  at  that,  and 
said  it  wasn't.  The  younger  one  smiled  at  me. 

Ah,  no — of  course  not,  continued  the  elder, 
her  voice  fading  again.  And  she  didn't 
suppose  I  could  tell  them  of  any  pension 
anywhere  about,  where  they  could  get  taken 
in  while  this  great  heat  lasted?  Really  the 
valley  was  most  terribly  airless.  The  best 
hotel,  which  had,  she  knew,  some  cool  rooms, 
was  beyond  their  means,  so  they  were  staying 
in  one  of  the  small  ones,  and  the  flies  worried 
them.  Apparently  I  had  no  flies  up  here. 
And  what  wonderful  air.  At  night,  no  doubt, 
it  was  quite  cool.  The  nights  in  the  valley 
were  most  trying.  It  was  difficult  to  sleep. 

I  asked  them  to  stay  to  lunch.  They 
accepted  gratefully.  When  I  took  them  to 
my  room  to  wash  their  hands  they  sighed  with 
pleasure  at  its  shadiness  and  quiet.  They 
thought  the  inside  of  the  house  delightfully 
roomy,  and  more  spacious,  said  the  elder, 
while  the  younger  one  smiled  agreement, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  85 

than  one  would  have  expected  from  its 
outside.  I  left  them,  sunk  with  sighs  of 
satisfaction,  on  the  sofa  in  the  hall,  their 
black  toques  and  gloves  on  a  chair  beside 
them,  gazing  at  the  view  through  the  open 
front  door  while  I  went  to  see  how  the  pota- 
toes were  getting  on. 

We  lunched  presently  in  the  shade  just 
outside  the  house,  and  the  strange  ladies 
continued  to  be  most  grateful,  the  elder 
voicing  their  gratitude,  the  younger  smiling 
agreement.  If  it  was  possible  to  like  one 
more  than  the  other,  seeing  with  what  en- 
thusiasm I  liked  them  both,  I  liked  the 
younger  because  she  smiled.  I  love  people 
who  smile.  It  does  usually  mean  sweet 
pleasantness  somewhere. 

After  lunch,  while  I  cleared  away,  having 
refused  their  polite  offers  of  help,  for  they  now 
realized  I  was  alone  in  the  house,  on  which, 
however,  though  it  must  have  surprised  them 
they  made  no  comment,  they  went  indoors  to 
the  sofa  again,  whose  soft  cushions  seemed 
particularly  attractive  to  them;  and  when  I 
came  back  the  last  time  for  the  breadcrumbs 
and  tablecloth  I  found  they  had  both  fallen 
asleep,  the  elder  one  with  her  handkerchief 
over  her  face. 


86  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Poor  things.  How  tired  they  were.  How 
glad  I  was  that  they  should  be  resting  and 
getting  cool.  A  little  sleep  would  do  them 
both  good. 

I  crept  past  them  on  tiptoe  with  my  final 
armful,  and  was  careful  to  move  about  in  the 
kitchen  very  quietly.  It  hadn't  been  my 
intention,  with  guests  to  lunch,  to  wash  up 
and  put  away,  but  rather  to  sit  with  them 
and  talk.  Not  having  talked  for  so  long  it 
seemed  a  godsend,  a  particularly  welcome 
birthday  present,  suddenly  to  have  two  Eng- 
lish people  drop  in  on  me  from  the  skies.  Up 
to  this  moment  I  had  been  busy,  first  getting 
lemonade  to  slake  their  thirst  and  then 
lunch  to  appease  their  hunger,  and  the  spare 
time  in  between  these  activities  had  been 
filled  with  the  expression  of  their  gratitude 
by  the  elder  and  her  expatiations  on  the  house 
and  what  she  called  the  grounds;  but  I  had 
looked  forward  to  about  an  hour's  real  talk 
after  lunch,  before  they  would  begin  to  want 
to  start  on  their  long  downward  journey  to 
their  pension — talk  in  which,  without  being 
specially  brilliant  any  of  us,  for  you  only  had 
to  look  at  us  to  see  we  wouldn't  be  specially 
that,  we  yet  might  at  least  tell  each  other 
amusing  things  about,  say,  Lord  Mayors. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  87 

It  is  true  I  don't  know  any  Lord  Mayors, 
though  I  do  know  somebody  whose  brother 
married  the  daughter  of  one;  but  if  they  could 
produce  a  Lord  Mayor  out  of  up  their  sleeve, 
as  I  suspected,  I  could  counter  him  with  a 
dean.  Not  quite  so  showy,  perhaps,  but  more 
permanent.  And  I  did  want  to  talk.  I 
have  been  silent  so  long  that  I  felt  I  could 
talk  about  almost  anything. 

Well,  as  they  were  having  a  little  nap, 
poor  things,  I  would  tidy  up  the  kitchen 
meanwhile,  and  by  the  time  that  was  done 
they  would  be  refreshed  and  ready  for  half  an 
hour's  agreeable  interchange  of  gossip. 

Every  now  and  then  during  this  tidying 
I  peeped  into  the  hall  in  case  they  were 
awake,  but  they  seemed  if  anything  to  be 
sounder  asleep  each  time.  The  younger  one, 
her  flushed  face  half  buried  in  a  cushion,  her 
fair  hair  a  little  ruffled,  had  a  pathetic  look 
of  almost  infantile  helplessness;  the  elder, 
discreetly  veiled  by  her  handkerchief,  slept 
more  stiffly,  with  less  abandonment  and  more 
determination.  Poor  things.  How  glad  I 
was  they  should  in  this  way  gather  strength 
for  the  long,  difficult  scramble  down  the 
mountain;  but  also  presently  I  began  to 
wish  they  would  wake  up. 


88  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  finished  what  I  had  to  do  in  the  kitchen, 
and  came  back  into  the  hall.  They  had  been 
sleeping  now  nearly  half  an  hour.  I  stood 
about  uncertainly.  Poor  things,  they  must 
be  dreadfully  tired  to  sleep  like  that.  I 
hardly  liked  to  look  at  them,  they  were  so 
defenceless,  and  I  picked  up  a  book  and  tried 
to  read;  but  I  couldn't  stop  my  eyes  from 
wandering  over  the  top  of  it  to  the  sofa  every 
few  minutes,  and  always  I  saw  the  same 
picture  of  profound  repose. 

Presently  I  put  down  the  book  and  wan- 
dered out  on  to  the  terrace  and  gazed  awhile 
at  the  view.  That,  too,  seemed  wrapped  in 
afternoon  slumber.  After  a  bit  I  wandered 
round  the  house  to  Mou-Mou.  He,  too,  wras 
asleep.  Then  I  came  back  to  the  front  door 
and  glanced  in  at  my  guests.  Still  no  change. 
Then  I  fetched  some  cigarettes,  not  moving 
this  time  quite  so  carefully,  and  going  out 
again  sat  on  the  low  terrace-wall  at  a  point 
from  which  I  could  see  straight  on  to  the  sofa 
and  notice  any  movement  that  might  take 
place. 

I  never  smoke  except  when  bored,  and  as 
I  am  never  bored  I  never  smoke.  But  this 
afternoon  it  was  just  that  unmanageable  sort 
of  moment  come  upon  me,  that  kind  of  situa- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  89 

tion  I  don't  know  how  to  deal  with,  which 
does  bore  me.  I  sat  om  the  wall  and  smoked 
three  cigarettes,  and  the  peace  on  the  sofa 
remained  complete.  What  ought  one  to  do? 
What  did  one  do,  faced  by  obstinately  sleep- 
ing guests?  Impossible  deliberately  to  wake 
them  up.  Yet  I  was  sure — they  had  now 
been  asleep  nearly  an  hour — that  when  they 
did  wake  up,  polite  as  they  were,  they  would 
be  upset  by  discovering  that  they  had  slept. 
Besides,  the  afternoon  was  getting  on.  They 
had  a  long  way  to  go.  If  only  Mou-Mou 
would  wake  up  and  bark.  .  .  .  But  there 
wasn't  a  sound.  The  hot  afternoon  brooded 
over  the  mountains  in  breathless  silence. 

Again  I  went  round  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  pausing  behind  the  last  corner  so  as  to 
make  what  I  did  next  more  alarming,  suddenly 
jumped  out  at  Mou-Mou. 

The  horribly  intelligent  dog  didn't  bother 
to  open  more  than  an  eye,  and  that  one  he 
immediately  shut  again. 

Disgusted  with  him,  I  returned  to  my  seat 
on  the  wall  and  smoked  another  cigarette. 
The  picture  on  the  sofa  was  the  same — perfect 
peace.  Oh,  well,  poor  things — but  I  did  want 
to  talk.  And  after  all  it  was  my  birthday. 

When  I  had  finished  the  cigarette  I  thought 


90  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

a  moment,  my  face  in  my  hands.  A  person 
of  tact — ah,  but  I  have  no  tact;  it  has  been 
my  undoing  on  the  cardinal  occasions  of  life 
that  I  have  none.  Well,  but  suppose  I  were 
a  person  of  tact — what  would  I  do?  Instantly 
the  answer  flashed  into  my  brain:  Knock, 
by  accident,  against  a  table. 

So  I  did.  I  got  up  quickly  and  crossed 
into  the  hall  and  knocked  against  a  table,  at 
first  with  gentleness,  and  then  as  there  was  no 
result  with  greater  vigour. 

My  elder  guest  behind  the  handkerchief 
continued  to  draw  deep,  regular  breaths,  but 
to  my  joy  the  younger  one  stirred  and  opened 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  I  didn't  wake  you?"  I 
exclaimed,  taking  an  eager  step  toward  the 
sofa. 

She  looked  at  me  vaguely,  and  fell  asleep 
again. 

I  went  back  on  to  the  terrace  and  lit 
another  cigarette.  That  was  five.  I  haven't 
smoked  so  much  before  in  one  day  in  my  life 
ever.  I  felt  quite  fast.  And  on  my  birthday, 
too.  By  the  time  I  had  finished  it  there  was 
a  look  about  the  shadows  on  the  grass  that 
suggested  tea.  Even  if  it  were  a  little  early 
the  noise  of  the  teacups  might  help  to  wake 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  91 

up  my  guests,  and  I  felt  that  a  call  to  tea 
would  be  a  delicate  and  hospitable  way  of 
doing  it. 

I  didn't  go  through  the  hall  on  tiptoe  this 
time,  but  walked  naturally;  and  I  opened 
the  door  into  the  kitchen  rather  noisily. 
Then  I  looked  round  at  the  sofa  to  see  the 
effect.  There  wasn't  any. 

Presently  tea  was  ready,  out  on  the  table 
where  we  had  lunched.  At  least  six  times 
I  had  been  backward  and  forward  through 
the  hall,  the  last  twice  carrying  things  that 
rattled  and  that  I  encouraged  to  rattle.  But 
on  the  sofa  the  strangers  slept  peacefully  on. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  touch 
them.  Short  of  that,  I  didn't  think  that 
anything  would  wake  them.  But  I  don't 
like  touching  guests;  I  mean,  in  between 
whiles.  I  have  never  done  it.  Especially 
not  when  they  weren't  looking.  And  still 
more  especially  not  when  they  were  complete 
strangers. 

Therefore  I  approached  the  sofa  with 
reluctance,  and  stood  uncertain  in  front  of 
it.  Poor  things,  they  really  were  most  com- 
pletely asleep.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  interrupt. 
Well,  but  they  had  had  a  nice  rest;  they  had 
slept  soundly  now  for  two  hours.  And  the 


9*  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

tea  would  be  cold  if  I  didn't  wake  them  up, 
and  besides,  how  were  they  going  to  get 
home  if  they  didn't  start  soon?  Still,  I 
don't  like  touching  guests.  Especially  strange 
guests.  .  .  . 

Manifestly,  however,  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done,  so  I  bent  over  the  younger 
one — the  other  one  was  too  awe-inspiring 
with  her  handkerchief  over  her  face — and 
gingerly  put  my  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Nothing  happened. 

I  put  it  on  again,  with  a  slightly  increased 
emphasis. 

She  didn't  open  her  eyes,  but  to  my  em- 
barrassment laid  her  cheek  on  it  affection- 
ately and  murmured  something  that  sounded 
astonishingly  like  Siegfried. 

I  know  about  Siegfried,  because  of  going 
to  the  opera.  He  was  a  German.  He  still 
is,  in  the  form  of  Siegfried  Wagner,  and  I 
daresay  of  others;  and  once  somebody  told 
me  that  when  Germans  wished  to  indulge 
their  disrespect  for  the  Kaiser  freely — he  was 
not  at  that  time  yet  an  ex-Kaiser — without 
being  run  in  for  Icse  majeste,  they  loudly  and 
openly  abused  him  under  the  name  of 
Siegfried  Meye,  whose  initials,  S.  M.,  also 
represent  Seine  Majestat;  by  which  simple 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  93 

methods  everybody  was  able  to  be  pleased 
and  nobody  was  able  to  be  hurt.  So  that 
when  my  sleeping  guest  murmured  Siegfried, 
I  couldn't  but  conclude  she  was  dreaming  of 
a  German;  and  when  at  the  same  time  she 
laid  her  cheek  on  my  hand,  I  was  forced  to 
realize  that  she  was  dreaming  of  him  affec- 
tionately. Which  astonished  me. 

Imbued  with  patriotism — the  accumulated 
patriotism  of  weeks  spent  out  of  England— 
I  felt  that  this  English  lady  should  instantly 
be  roused  from  a  dream  that  did  her  no 
credit.  She  herself,  I  felt  sure,  would  be  the 
first  to  deplore  such  a  dream.  So  I  drew  my 
hand  away  from  beneath  her  cheek — even  by 
mistake  I  didn't  like  it  to  be  thought  the 
hand  of  somebody  called  Siegfried — and, 
stooping  down,  said  quite  loud  and  distinctly 
in  her  ear,  "Won't  you  come  to  tea?" 

This,  at  last,  did  wake  her.  She  sat  up 
with  a  start,  and  looked  at  me  for  a  moment 
in  surprise. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  confused,  "have  I  been 
asleep?" 

"I'm  very  glad  you  have,"  I  said,  smiling 
at  her,  for  she  was  already  again  smiling  at 
me.  'Your  climb  this  morning  was  enough 
to  kill  you." 


94  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Oh,  but,"  she  murmured,  getting  up 
quickly  and  straightening  her  hair,  "how 
dreadful  to  come  to  your  house  and  go  to 
sleep— 

And  she  turned  to  the  elder  one,  and  again 
astonished  me  by,  with  one  swift  movement, 
twitching  the  handkerchief  off  her  face  and 
saying  exactly  as  one  says  when  playing 
the  face-and-handkerchief  game  with  one's 
baby,  "Peep  bo."  Then  she  turned  back  to 
me  and  smiled  and  said  nothing  more,  for  I 
suppose  she  knew  the  elder  one,  roused  thus 
competently,  would  now  do  all  the  talking;  as 
indeed  she  did,  being  as  I  feared  greatly  upset 
and  horrified  when  she  found  she  had  not  only 
been  asleep  but  been  it  for  two  hours. 

We  had  tea;  and  all  the  while,  while  the 
elder  one  talked  of  the  trouble  she  was  afraid 
she  had  given,  and  the  shame  she  felt  that 
they  should  have  slept,  and  their  gratitude 
for  what  she  called  my  prolonged  and  patient 
hospitality,  I  was  wondering  about  the  other. 
Whenever  she  caught  my  pensive  and  in- 
quiring eye  she  smiled  at  me.  She  had  very 
sweet  eyes,  gray  ones,  gentle  and  intelligent, 
and  when  she  smiled  an  agreeable  dimple 
appeared.  Bringing  my  Paley's  "Evidences" 
and  Sherlock  Holmes'  side  to  bear  on  her,  I 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  95 

reasoned  that  my  younger  guest  was,  or  had 
been,  a  mother — this  because  of  the  practised 
way  she  had  twitched  the  handkerchief  off 
and  said  Peep  bo;  that  she  was  either  a 
widow,  or  hadn't  seen  her  husband  for  some 
time, — this  because  of  the  real  affection  with 
which  in  her  sleep  she  had  laid  her  cheek  on 
my  hand;  and  that  she  liked  music  and  often 
went  to  the  opera. 

After  tea  the  elder  got  up  stiffly — she  had 
walked  much  too  far  already,  and  was  clearly 
unfit  to  go  all  that  long  way  more — and  said, 
if  I  would  direct  them,  they  must  now  set  out 
for  the  valley. 

The  younger  one  put  on  her  toque  obedi- 
ently at  this,  and  helped  the  elder  one  to  pin 
hers  on  straight.  It  was  now  five  o'clock, 
and  if  they  didn't  once  lose  their  way  they 
would  be  at  their  hotel  by  half -past  seven; 
in  time,  said  the  elder,  for  the  end  of  table- 
d'hbte,  a  meal  much  interfered  with  by  the 
very  numerous  flies.  But  if  they  did  go 
wrong  at  any  point  it  would  be  much  later, 
probably  dark. 

1  asked  them  to  stay. 

To  stay?  The  elder,  engaged  in  buttoning 
her  tight  kid  gloves,  said  it  was  most  kind  of 
me,  but  they  couldn't  possibly  stay  any 


96  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

longer.  It  was  far  too  late  already,  owing  to 
their  so  unfortunately  having  gone  to  sleep— 

"I  mean  stay  the  night,"  I  said;  and  ex- 
plained that  it  would  be  doing  me  a  kind- 
ness, and  because  of  that  they  must  please 
overlook  anything  in  such  an  invitation  that 
might  appear  unconventional,  for  certainly 
if  they  did  set  out  I  should  lie  awake  all  night 
thinking  of  them  lost  somewhere  among  the 
precipices,  or  perhaps  fallen  over  one,  and 
how  much  better  to  go  down  comfortably  in 
daylight,  and  I  could  lend  them  everything 
they  wanted,  including  a  great  many  new 
toothbrushes  I  found  here — in  short,  I  not  only 
invited,  I  pressed;  growing  more  eager  by  the 
sheer  gathering  momentum  of  my  speech. 

All  day,  while  the  elder  talked  and  I 
listened,  I  had  secretly  felt  uneasy.  Here 
was  I,  one  woman  in  a  house  arranged  for 
family  gatherings,  while  they  for  want  of 
rooms  were  forced  to  swelter  in  the  valley. 
Gradually,  as  I  listened,  my  uneasiness  in- 
creased. Presently  I  began  to  feel  guilty. 
And  at  last,  as  I  watched  them  sleeping  in 
such  exhaustion  on  the  sofa,  I  felt  at  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  somehow  responsible. 
But  I  don't  know,  of  course,  that  it  is  wise  to 
invite  strangers  to  stay  with  one. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  97 

They  accepted  gratefully.  The  moment  the 
elder  understood  what  it  was  that  my  eager 
words  were  pressing  on  her,  she  drew  the  pins 
out  of  her  toque  and  laid  it  on  the  chair  again ; 
and  so  did  the  other  one,  smiling  at  me. 

When  the  Antoines  came  home  I  went  out 
to  meet  them.  By  that  time  my  guests 
were  shut  up  in  their  bedrooms  with  new 
toothbrushes.  They  had  gone  up  very  early, 
both  of  them  so  stiff  that  they  could  hardly 
walk.  Till  they  did  go  up,  what  moments 
I  had  been  able  to  spare  from  my  hasty 
preparations  for  their  comfort  had  been  filled 
entirely,  as  earlier  in  the  day,  by  the  elder 
one's  gratitude;  there  had  still  been  no 
chance  of  real  talk. 

"J'ai  des  visiles"  I  said  to  the  Antoines, 
going  out  to  meet  them  when,  through  the 
silence  of  the  evening,  I  heard  their  steps 
coining  up  the  path. 

Antoine  wasn't  surprised.  He  just  said, 
"C/V/  .srra  commc  autrcfois"  and  began  to  shut 
the  shutters. 

But  I  am.  I  can't  go  to  bed,  I'm  so  much 
surprised.  I've  been  sitting  up  here  scrib- 
bling when  I  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  long 
ago.  Who  would  have  thought  that  the  day 
that  began  so  emptily  would  end  with  two  of 


98  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

my  rooms  full — each  containing  a  widow? 
For  they  are  widows,  they  told  me:  widows 
who  have  lost  their  husbands  by  peaceful 
methods,  nothing  to  do  with  the  war.  Their 
names  are  Mrs.  Barnes  and  Mrs.  Jewks — at 
least  that  is  what  the  younger  one's  sounded 
like;  I  don't  know  if  I  have  spelt  it  right. 
They  come  from  Dulwich.  I  think  the  elder 
one  had  a  slight  misgiving  at  the  last  and 
seemed  to  remember  what  was  due  to  the 
Lord  Mayor  when  she  found  herself  going  to 
bed  in  a  strange  house  belonging  to  somebody 
of  whom  she  knew  nothing;  for  she  remarked 
a  little  doubtfully,  and  with  rather  a  defensive 
eye  fixed  on  me,  that  the  war  had  broken 
down  many  barriers,  and  that  people  did 
things  now  that  they  wouldn't  have  dreamed 
of  doing  five  years  ago. 

The  other  one  didn't  say  anything,  but 
actually  kissed  me.  I  hope  she  wasn't  again 
mistaking  me  for  Siegfried. 

August  1 5th. 

My  guests  have  gone  again,  but  only  to 
fetch  their  things  and  pay  their  hotel  bill, 
and  then  they  are  coming  back  to  stay  with 
me  till  it  is  a  little  cooler.  They  are  coining 
back  to-morrow,  not  to-day.  They  are 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  99 

entangled  in  some  arrangement  with  their 
pension  that  makes  it  difficult  for  them  to 
leave  at  once. 

Mrs.  Barnes  appeared  at  breakfast  with 
any  misgivings  she  may  have  had  last  night 
gone,  for  when  I  suggested  they  should  spend 
this  hot  weather  up  here  she  immediately 
accepted.  I  hadn't  slept  for  thinking  of 
them.  How  could  I  possibly  not  ask  them 
to  stay,  seeing  their  discomfort  and  my 
roominess?  Toward  morning  it  was  finally 
clear  to  me  that  it  wasn't  possible:  I  would 
ask  them.  Though,  remembering  the  look 
in  Mrs.  Barnes's  eye  the  last  thing  last  night, 
I  couldn't  be  sure  she  would  accept.  She 
might  want  to  find  out  about  me  first,  after 
the  cautious  and  hampering  way  of  women — 
oh,  I  wish  women  wouldn't  always  be  so 
cautious,  but  simply  get  on  with  their  friend- 
ships! She  might  first  want  assurances  that 
there  was  some  good  reason  for  my  being 
here  all  by  myself.  Alas,  there  isn't  a  good 
reason;  there  is  only  a  bad  one.  But 
fortunately  to  be  alone  is  generally  regarded 
as  respectable,  in  spite  of  what  Seneca  says 
a  philosopher  said  to  a  young  man  he  saw 
walking  by  himself:  "Have  a  care,"  said  he, 
"of  lewd  company." 


100  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

However,  I  don't  suppose  Mrs.  Barnes 
knew  about  Seneca.  Anyhow,  she  didn't 
hesitate.  She  accepted  at  once,  and  said 
that  under  these  circumstances  it  was  cer- 
tainly due  to  me  to  tell  me  a  little  about 
themselves. 

At  this  I  got  my  dean  ready  to  meet  the 
Lord  Mayor,  but  after  all  I  was  told  nothing 
more  than  that  my  guests  are  sisters;  for  at 
this  point,  very  soon  arrived  at,  the  younger 
one.  Mrs.  Jewks,  who  had  slipped  away  on  our 
getting  up  from  breakfast,  reappeared  with  the 
toques  and  gloves,  and  said  she  thought  they 
had  better  start  before  it  got  any  hotter. 
vSo  they  went,  and  the  long  day  here 
has  been  most  beautiful — so  peaceful,  so 
quiet,  with  the  delicate  mountains  like  opals 
against  the  afternoon  sky,  and  the  shadows 
lengthening  along  the  valley. 

I  don't  feel  to-day  as  I  did  yesterday,  that 
I  want  to  talk.  To-day  I  am  content  with 
things  exactly  as  they  are:  the  sun,  the 
silence,  the  caresses  of  the  funny  little  white 
kitten  with  the  smudge  of  black  round  its 
left  eye  that  makes  it  look  as  though  it 
must  be  somebody's  wife,  and  the  pleasant 
knowledge  that  my  new  friends  are  coming 
back  again. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  101 

I  think  that  knowledge  makes  to-day  more 
precious.  It  is  the  last  day  for  some  time, 
for  at  least  a  week  judging  from  the  look  of 
the  blazing  sky,  of  what  I  see  now  that  they  are 
ending  have  been  wonderful  days.  Up  the 
ladder  of  these  days  I  have  climbed  slowly 
away  from  the  blackness  at  the  bottom. 
It  has  been  like  finding  some  steps  under 
water  just  as  one  was  drowning,  and  crawling 
up  them  to  air  and  light.  But  now  that  I 
have  got  at  least  most  of  myself  back  to  air 
and  light,  and  feel  hopeful  of  not  slipping 
down  again,  it  is  surely  time  to  arise,  shake 
myself,  and  begin  to  do  something  active  and 
fruitful.  And  behold,  just  as  I  realize  this, 
just  as  I  realize  that  I  am,  so  to  speak,  ripe 
for  fruit-bearing,  there  appear  on  the  scene 
Mrs.  Barnes  and  Mrs.  Jewks,  as  it  were  the 
mid  wives  of  Providence. 

Well,  that  shall  be  to-morrow.  Meanwhile 
there  is  still  to-day,  and  each  one  of  its  quiet 
hours  seems  very  precious.  I  wonder  what 
my  new  friends  like  to  read.  Suppose — I 
was  going  to  say  suppose  it  is  "The  Rosary"; 
but  I  won't  suppose  that,  for  when  it  comes 
to  supposing,  why  not  suppose  something  that 
isn't  "The  Rosary?"  Why  not,  for  instance, 
suppose  they  like  "Eminent  Victorians,"  and 


102  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

that  we  three  are  going  to  sit  of  an  evening 
delicately  tickling  each  other  with  quotations 
from  it,  and  gently  squirming  in  our  seats 
for  pleasure?  It  is  just  as  easy  to  suppose 
that  as  to  suppose  anything  else,  and  as  I'm 
not  yet  acquainted  with  these  ladies'  tastes 
one  supposition  is  as  likely  to  be  right  as 
another. 

I  don't  know,  though — I  forgot  their  petti- 
coats. I  can't  believe  any  friends  of  Mr. 
Lytton  Strachey  wear  that  kind  of  petti- 
coat, eminently  Victorian  even  though  it 
be;  and  although  he  wouldn't,  of  course, 
have  direct  ocular  proof  that  they  did  unless 
he  had  stood  with  me  yesterday  at  the  bottom 
of  that  wall  while  they  on  the  top  held  up 
their  skirts,  still  what  one  has  on  underneath 
does  somehow  ooze  through  into  one's  be- 
haviour. I  know  once,  when  impelled  by 
a  heat  wave  in  America  to  cast  aside  the 
undergarments  of  a  candid  mind  and  buy 
and  put  on  pink  chiffon,  the  pink  chiffon 
instantly  got  through  all  my  clothes  into 
my  conduct,  which  became  curiously  dash- 
ing. Anybody  can  tell  what  a  woman  has 
got  on  underneath  by  merely  watching  her 
behaviour.  I  have  known  just  the  con- 
sciousness of  silk  stockings,  worn  by  one 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  103 

accustomed  only  to  wool,  produce  dictatorial- 
ness  where  all  before  had  been  submission. 

August  19th. 

I  haven't  written  for  three  days  because 
I  have  been  so  busy  settling  down  to  my 
guests. 

They  call  each  other  Kitty  and  Dolly. 
They  explained  that  these  were  inevitably 
their  names  because  they  were  born,  one 
fifty,  the  other  forty  years  ago.  I  inquired 
why  this  was  inevitable,  and  they  drew  my 
attention  to  fashions  in  names,  asserting  that 
people's  ages  could  generally  be  guessed  by 
their  Christian  names.  If,  they  said,  their 
birth  had  taken  place  ten  years  earlier  they 
would  have  been  Ethel  and  Maud;  if  ten 
years  later  they  would  have  been  Muriel  and 
Gladys;  and  if  twenty  years  only  ago  they 
had  no  doubt  but  what  they  would  have  been 
Elizabeth  and  Pamela.  It  is  always  Mrs. 
Barnes  who  talks;  but  the  effect  is  as  though 
they  together  were  telling  me  things,  because 
of  the  way  Mrs.  Jewks  smiles — I  conclude 
in  agreement. 

"Our  dear  parents,  both  long  since  dead," 
said  Mrs.  Barnes,  adjusting  her  eyeglasses 
more  comfortably  on  her  nose,  "  didn't  seem 


104  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

to  remember  that  we  would  ever  grow  old, 
for  we  weren't  even  christened  Katherine  and 
Dorothy,  to  which  we  might  have  reverted 
when  we  ceased  being  girls,  but  we  were 
Kitty  and  Dolly  from  the  very  beginning, 
and  actually  in  that  condition  came  away 
from  the  font." 

"I  like  being  Dolly,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Jewks. 

Mrs.  Barnes  looked  at  her  with  what  I 
thought  was  a  slight  uneasiness,  and  rebuked 
her.  "You  shouldn't,"  she  said.  "After 
thirty-nine  no  wroman  should  willingly  be 
Dolly." 

"I  still  feel  exactly  like  Dolly,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Jewks. 

"It's  a  misfortune,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes, 
shaking  her  head.  'To  be  called  Dolly  after 
a  certain  age  is  bad  enough,  but  it  is  far 
worse  to  feel  like  it.  What  I  think  of,"  she 
said,  turning  to  me,  "is  when  we  are  really 
old — in  bath  chairs,  unable  to  walk,  and  no 
doubt  being  spoon  fed,  yet  obliged  to  con- 
tinue to  be  called  by  these  names.  It  will 
rob  us  of  dignity." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  mind,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Jewks.  "I  shall  still  feel  exactly  like  Dolly." 

Mrs.  Barnes  looked  at  her,  again  I  thought 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  105 

with  uneasiness — with,  really,  an  air  of  rather 
anxious  responsibility. 

And  afterward,  when  her  sister  had  gone 
indoors  for  something,  she  expounded  a 
theory  she  said  she  held,  the  soundness  of 
which  had  often  been  proved  to  her  by  events, 
that  names  had  much  influence  on  behaviour. 

"Not  half  as  much,"  I  thought  (but  didn't 
say),  "as  underclothes."  And  indeed  I  have 
for  years  been  acquainted  with  somebody 
called  Trixy,  who  for  steady  gloom  and  heavi- 
ness of  spirit  would  be  hard  to  equal.  Also 
I  know  an  Isolda;  a  most  respectable  married 
woman,  of  a  sprightly  humour  and  much 
nimbleness  in  dodging  big  emotions. 

"Dolly,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  "has  never,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  shared  my  opinion.  If  she 
had,  many  things  in  her  life  would  have  been 
different,  for  then  she  would  have  been  on 
her  guard  as  I  have  been.  I  am  glad  to  say 
there  is  nothing  I  have  ever  done  since  I 
ceased  to  be  a  child  that  has  been  even  re- 
motely compatible  with  being  called  Kitty." 

I  said  I  thought  that  was  a  great  deal  to 
be  able  to  say.  It  suggested,  I  said,  quite 
an  unusually  blameless  past.  Through  my 
brain  ran  for  an  instant  the  vision  of  that 
devil  who,  seeking  his  tail,  met  Antoine  in 


106  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  passage.  I  blushed.  Fortunately  Mrs. 
Barnes  didn't  notice. 

"What  did  Dol— what  did  Mrs.  Jewks  do," 
I  said,  "that  you  think  was  the  direct  result 
of  her  Christian  name?  Don't  tell  me  if  my 
question  is  indiscreet,  which  I  daresay  it  is, 
because  I  know  I  often  am,  but  your  theory 
interests  me." 

Mrs.  Barnes  hesitated  a  moment.  She 
was,  I  think,  turning  over  in  her  mind 
whether  she  \vould  give  herself  the  relief  of 
complete  unreserve,  or  continue  for  a  few 
more  days  to  skim  round  on  the  outskirts  of 
confidences.  This  wras  yesterday.  After  all, 
she  had  only  been  with  me  two  days. 

She  considered  awhile,  then  decided  that 
two  days  wasn't  long  enough,  so  only  said: 
"My  sister  is  sometimes  a  little  rash— or 
perhaps  I  should  say  has  been.  But  the 
effects  of  rashness  are  felt  for  a  long  time; 
usually  for  the  rest  of  one's  life." 

;'Yes,"  I  agreed;  and  thought  ruefully  of 
some  of  my  own. 

This,  however,  only  made  me  if  anything 
more  inquisitive  as  to  the  exact  nature  and 
quality  of  Dolly's  resemblance  to  her  name. 
We  all,  I  suppose  (except  Mrs.  Barnes,  who 
I  am  sure  hasn't),  have  been  rash,  and  if  we 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  107 

could  induce  ourselves  to  be  frank  much 
innocent  amusement  might  be  got  by  com- 
paring the  results  of  our  rashnesses.  But  Mrs. 
Barnes  was  unable  at  the  moment  to  induce 
herself  to  be  frank,  and  she  returned  to  the  sub- 
ject she  has  already  treated  very  fully  since  her 
arrival,  the  wonderful  bracing  air  up  here 
and  her  great  and  grateful  appreciation  of  it. 

To-day  is  Tuesday;  and  on  Saturday  even- 
ing— the  day  they  arrived  back  again,  com- 
plete with  their  luggage,  which  came  up 
in  a  cart  round  by  the  endless  zigzags  of  the 
road  while  they  with  their  peculiar  dauntless- 
ness  took  the  steep  short  cuts — we  had  what 
might  be  called  an  exchange  of  cards.  Mrs. 
Barnes  told  me  what  she  thought  fit  for  me 
to  know  about  her  late  husband,  and  I 
responded  by  telling  her  and  her  sister  what 
I  thought  fit  for  them  to  know  of  my  uncle 
the  Dean. 

There  is  such  a  lot  of  him  that  is  fit  to 
know  that  it  took  some  time.  He  was  a 
great  convenience.  How  glad  I  am  I've  got 
him.  A  dean,  after  all,  is  of  an  impressive 
respectability  as  a  relation.  His  apron  covers 
a  multitude  of  family  shortcomings.  You 
can  hold  him  up  to  the  light,  and  turn  him 
round,  and  view  him  from  every  angle,  and 


108  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

there  is  nothing  about  him  that  doesn't  bear 
inspection.  All  my  relations  aren't  like  that. 
One  at  least,  though  he  denies  it,  wasn't  even 
born  in  wedlock.  We're  not  sure  about  the 
others,  but  we're  quite  sure  about  this  one, 
that  he  wasn't  born  altogether  as  he  ought 
to  have  been.  Except  for  his  obstinacy  in 
denial  he  is  a  very  attractive  person.  My 
uncle  can't  be  got  to  see  that  he  exists.  This 
makes  him  not  able  to  like  my  uncle. 

I  didn't  go  beyond  the  Dean  on  Saturday 
night,  for  he  had  a  most  satisfying  effect 
on  my  new  friends.  Mrs.  Barnes  evidently 
thinks  highly  of  deans,  and  Mrs.  Jewks, 
though  she  said  nothing,  smiled  very  pleas- 
antly while  I  held  him  up  to  view.  No 
Lord  Mayor  was  produced  on  their  side.  I 
begin  to  think  there  isn't  one.  I  begin  to 
think  their  self-respect  is  simply  due  to  the 
consciousness  that  they  are  British.  Not 
that  Mrs.  Jewks  says  anything  about  it, 
but  she  smiles  while  Mrs.  Barnes  talks  on 
immensely  patriotic  lines.  I  gather  they 
haven't  been  in  England  for  some  time,  so 
that  naturally  their  affection  for  their  country 
has  been  fanned  into  a  great  glow.  I  know 
all  about  that  sort  of  glow.  I  have  had  it 
each  time  I've  been  out  of  England. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  109 

August  20th. 

Mrs.  Barnes  elaborated  the  story  of  him 
she  speaks  of  always  as  Mr.  Barnes  to- 
day. 

He  was,  she  said,  a  business  man,  and  went 
to  the  city  every  day,  where  he  did  things 
with  hides:  dried  skins,  I  understood,  that 
he  bought  and  resold.  And  though  Mr. 
Barnes  drew7  his  sustenance  from  these  hides 
with  what  seemed  to  Mrs.  Barnes  great  ease 
and  abundance  while  he  was  alive,  after  his 
death  it  was  found  that,  through  no  fault  of 
his  own  but  rather,  she  suggested,  to  his 
credit,  he  had  for  some  time  past  been  living 
on  his  capital.  This  capital  came  to  an  end 
almost  simultaneously  with  Mr.  Barnes,  and 
all  that  was  left  for  Mrs.  Barnes  to  live 
on  was  the  house  at  Dulwich,  handsomely 
furnished,  it  was  true,  with  everything  of  the 
best;  for  Mr.  Barnes  had  disliked  what  Mrs. 
Barnes  called  fandangles,  and  was  all  for 
mahogany  and  keeping  a  good  table.  But 
you  can't  live  on  mahogany,  said  Mrs. 
Barnes,  nor  keep  a  good  table  with  nothing 
to  keep  it  on,  so  she  wished  to  sell  the 
house  and  retire  into  obscurity  on  the  pro- 
ceeds. Her  brother-in-law,  however,  sug- 
gested paying  guests;  so  would  she  be  able  to 


110  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

continue  in  her  home,  even  if  on  a  slightly 
different  basis.  Many  people  at  that  period 
were  beginning  to  take  in  paying  guests. 
She  would  not,  he  thought,  lose  caste.  Es- 
pecially if  she  restricted  herself  to  real  gentle- 
folk, who  wouldn't  allow  her  to  feel  her 
position. 

It  was  a  little  difficult  at  first,  but  she  got 
used  to  it  and  was  doing  very  well  when  the 
war  broke  out.  Then,  of  course,  she  had  to 
stand  by  Dolly.  So  she  gave  up  her  house 
and  guests,  and  her  means  were  now  very 
small;  for  somehow,  remarked  Mrs.  Barnes, 
directly  one  wants  to  sell  nobody  seems  to 
want  to  buy,  and  she  had  had  to  let  her 
beautiful  house  go  for  very  little— 

"But  why—  I  interrupted;  and  pulled 

myself  up. 

I  was  just  going  to  ask  why  Dolly  hadn't 
gone  to  Mrs.  Barnes  and  helped  with  the 
paying  guests,  instead  of  Mrs.  Barnes  giving 
them  up  and  going  to  Dolly;  but  I  stopped 
because  I  thought  perhaps  such  a  question, 
seeing  that  they  quite  remarkably  refrain 
from  asking  me  questions,  might  have  been 
a  little  indiscreet  at  our  present  stage  of 
intimacy.  No,  I  can't  call  it  intimacy- 
friendship,  then.  No,  I  can't  call  it  friend- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  111 

ship  either,  yet;  the  only  word  at  present  is 
acquaintanceship. 


August 

The  conduct  of  my  guests  is  so  extraor- 
dinarily discreet,  their  careful  avoidance 
of  curiosity,  of  questions,  is  so  remarkable, 
that  I  can  but  try  to  imitate.  They  haven't 
asked  me  a  single  thing.  I  positively  thrust 
the  Dean  on  them.  They  make  no  comment 
on  anything,  either,  except  the  situation  and 
the  view.  We  seem  to  talk  if  not  only 
certainly  chiefly  about  that.  We  haven't 
even  got  to  books  yet.  I  still  don't  know 
about  "The  Rosary."  Once  or  twice  when  I 
have  been  alone  with  Mrs.  Barnes  she  has 
begun  to  talk  of  Dolly,  who  appears  to  fill 
most  of  her  thoughts,  but  each  time  she  has 
broken  off  in  the  middle  and  resumed  her 
praises  of  the  situation  and  the  view.  I 
haven't  been  alone  at  all  yet  with  Dolly; 
nor,  though  Mr.  Barnes  has  been  dwelt  upon 
in  detail,  have  I  been  told  anything  about 
Mr.  Jewks. 


August 

Impetuosity  sometimes  gets  the  better  of 
me,  and  out  begins  to  rush  a  question;  but 


112  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

up  to  now  I  have  succeeded  in  catching  it 
and  strangling  it  before  it  is  complete.  For 
perhaps  my  new  friends  have  been  very 
unhappy,  just  as  I  have  been  very  unhappy, 
and  they  may  be  struggling  out  of  it  just  as 
I  am,  still  with  places  in  their  memories  that 
hurt  too  much  for  them  to  dare  to  touch. 
Perhaps  it  is  only  by  silence  and  reserve  that 
they  can  manage  to  be  brave. 

There  are  no  signs,  though,  of  anything  of 
the  sort  on  their  composed  faces;  but  then, 
neither,  I  think,  would  they  see  any  signs  of 
such  things  on  mine.  The  moment  as  it 
passes  is,  I  find,  somehow  a  gay  thing.  Some- 
body says  something  amusing,  and  I  laugh; 
somebody  is  kind,  and  I  am  happy.  Just  the 
smell  of  a  flower,  the  turn  of  a  sentence,  any- 
thing, the  littlest  thing,  is  enough  to  make  the 
passing  moment  gay  to  me.  I  am  sure  my 
guests  can't  tell  by  looking  at  me  that  I  have 
ever  been  anything  but  cheerful;  and  so  I,  by 
looking  at  them,  wouldn't  be  able  to  say  that 
they  have  ever  been  anything  but  composed- 
Mrs.  Barnes  composed  and  grave,  Mrs.  Jewks 
composed  and  smiling. 

But  I  refuse  now  to  jump  at  conclusions  in 
the  nimble  way  I  used  to.  Even  about 
Mrs.  Barnes,  who  would  seem  to  be  an 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  113 

untouched  monument  of  tranquillity,  a  cave 
of  calm  memories,  I  can  no  longer  be  sure. 
And  so  we  sit  together  quietly  on  the  terrace, 
and  are  as  presentable  as  so  many  tidy,  white- 
curtained  houses  in  a  decent  street.  We 
don't  know  wrhat  we've  got  inside  us  each  of 
disorder,  of  discomfort,  of  anxieties.  Per- 
haps there  is  nothing;  perhaps  my  friends 
are  as  tidy  and  quiet  inside  as  out.  Any- 
how up  to  now  we  have  kept  ourselves  to 
ourselves,  as  Mrs.  Barnes  wrould  say,  and  we 
make  a  most  creditable  show. 

Only  I  don't  believe  in  that  keeping  oneself 
to  oneself  attitude.  Life  is  too  brief  to  waste 
any  of  it  being  slow  in  making  friends.  I 
have  a  theory — Mrs.  Barnes  isn't  the  only 
one  of  us  three  who  has  theories — that 
reticence  is  a  stuffy,  hampering  thing.  Ex- 
cept about  one's  extremest  bitter  grief,  which 
is,  like  one's  extremest  joy  of  love,  too  deeply 
hidden  away  with  God  to  be  told  of,  one 
should  be  without  reserves.  And  if  one 
makes  mistakes,  and  if  the  other  person  turns 
out  to  have  been  unworthy  of  being  treated 
frankly  and  goes  away  and  distorts,  it  can't 
be  helped — one  just  takes  the  risk.  For 
isn't  anything  better  than  distrust — and  the 
slowness  and  selfish  fear  of  caution?  Isn't 


114  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

anything  better  than  not  doing  one's  fellow 
creatures  the  honour  of  taking  it  for  granted 
that  they  are,  women  and  all,  gentlemen? 
Besides,  how  lonely  .  .  . 

August  %3rd. 

The  sun  goes  on  blazing,  and  we  go  on 
sitting  in  the  shade  in  a  row. 

Mrs.  Barnes  does  a  great  deal  of  knitting. 
She  knits  socks  for  soldiers  all  day.  She  got 
into  this  habit  during  the  war,  when  she  sent 
I  don't  know  how  many  pairs  a  year  to  the 
trenches,  and  now  she  can't  stop.  I  suppose 
these  will  go  to  charitable  institutions,  for  al- 
though the  war  has  left  off  there  are,  as  Mrs. 
Jewks  justly  said,  still  legs  in  the  world.  This 
remark  I  think  came  under  the  heading 
Dolly  in  Mrs.  Barnes's  mind,  for  she  let  her 
glance  rest  a  moment  on  her  sister  in  a  kind 
of  affectionate  concern. 

Mrs.  Jewks  hasn't  said  much  yet,  but  each 
time  she  has  said  anything  I  have  liked  it. 
Usually  she  murmurs,  almost  as  if  she  didn't 
want  Mrs.  Barnes  to  hear,  yet  couldn't  help 
saying  what  she  says.  She,  too,  knits,  but 
only,  I  think,  because  her  sister  likes  to  see 
her  sitting  beside  her  doing  it,  and  never 
for  long  at  a  time.  Her  chief  occupation,  I 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  115 

have  discovered,  is  to  read  aloud  to  Mrs. 
Barnes. 

This  wasn't  done  in  my  presence  the  first 
four  days  out  of  consideration  for  me,  for 
everybody  doesn't  like  being  read  to,  Mrs. 
Barnes  explained  afterward;  but  they  went 
upstairs  after  lunch  to  their  rooms — to  sleep, 
as  I  supposed,  knowing  how  well  they  do  that, 
and  it  was  only  gradually  that  I  realized, 
from  the  monotonous  gentle  drone  coming 
through  the  window  to  where  I  lay  below  on 
the  grass,  that  it  wasn't  Mrs.  Barnes  giving  long 
drawn-out  counsel  to  Mrs.  Jewks  on  the  best 
way  to  cope  with  the  dangers  of  being  Dolly, 
but  that  it  was  Mrs.  Jewks  reading  aloud. 

After  that  I  suggested  they  should  do  this 
on  the  terrace,  where  it  is  so  much  cooler 
than  anywhere  else  in  the  afternoon;  so 
now,  reassured  that  it  in  no  way  disturbs  me 
—Mrs.  Barnes's  politeness  and  sense  of  duty 
as  a  guest  never  flags  for  a  moment — this  is 
what  happens,  and  it  happens  in  the  mornings 
also.  For,  says  Mrs.  Barnes,  how  much  better 
it  is  to  study  what  persons  of  note  have  said 
than  waste  the  hours  of  life  saying  things 
oneself. 

They  read  biographies  and  histories,  but 
only  those,  I  gather,  that  are  not  recent; 


116  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  sometimes,  Mrs.  Barnes  said,  they  lighten 
what  Mrs.  Jewks  described  in  a  murmur  as 
these  more  solid  forms  of  fiction  by  reading 
a  really  good  novel. 

I  asked  Mrs.  Barnes  with  much  interest 
about  the  novel.  What  were  the  really  good 
ones  they  had  read?  And  I  hung  on  the 
answer,  for  here  was  something  we  could  talk 
about  that  wasn't  either  the  situation  or  the 
view  and  yet  was  discreet. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "there 
are  very  few  really  good  novels.  We  don't 
care,  of  course,  except  for  the  very  best, 
and  they  don't  appear  to  be  printed  nowa- 
days." 

"I  expect  the  very  best  are  unprintable," 
murmured  Mrs.  Jewks,  her  head  bent  over 
her  knitting,  for  it  was  one  of  the  moments 
when  she,  too,  was  engaged  on  socks. 

'There  used  to  be  very  good  novels," 
continued  Mrs.  Barnes,  who  hadn't  I  think 
heard  her,  "but  of  recent  years  they  have 
indeed  been  few.  I  begin  to  fear  we  shall 
never  again  see  a  Thackeray  or  a  Trollope. 
And  yet  I  have  a  theory— and  surely  these 
two  writers  prove  it — that  it  is  possible  to  be 
both  wholesome  and  clever." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  any  more  Thackerays 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  117 

and  Trollopes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Jewks.  "I've 
seen  them.  Now  I  want  to  see  something 
different." 

This  sentence  was  too  long  for  Mrs.  Barnes 
not  to  notice,  and  she  looked  at  me  as  one 
who  should  say,  "There.  What  did  I  tell 
you?  Her  name  unsettles  her." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Our  father,"  then  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  with 
so  great  a  gravity  of  tone  that  for  a  moment 
I  thought  she  was  unaccountably  and  at 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  going  to  em- 
bark on  the  Lord's  Prayer,  "knew  Thackeray. 
He  mixed  with  him." 

And  as  I  wasn't  quite  sure  whether  this 
was  a  rebuke  for  Dolly  or  information  for  me, 
I  kept  quiet. 

As,  however,  Mrs.  Barnes  didn't  continue, 
I  began  to  feel  that  perhaps  I  was  expected 
to  say  something.  So  I  did. 

'That,"  I  said,  "must  have  been  very— 

I  searched  round  for  an  enthusiastic  word, 
but  couldn't  find  one.  It  is  unfortunate 
how  I  can  never  think  of  any  words  more 
enthusiastic  than  what  I  am  feeling.  They 
seem  to  disappear;  and  urged  by  politeness, 
or  a  desire  to  please,  I  frantically  hunt  for 
them  in  a  perfectly  empty  mind.  The  near- 


118  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

est  approach  to  one  that  I  found  this  morn- 
ing was  Enjoyable.  I  don't  think  much  of 
Enjoyable.  It  is  a  watery  word;  but  it 
was  all  I  found,  so  I  said  it.  "That  must 
have  been  very  enjoyable,"  I  said;  and  even 
I  could  hear  that  my  voice  was  without 
excitement. 

Mrs.  Jewks  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 

"It  was  more  than  enjoyable,"  said  Mrs. 
Barnes,  "it  was  elevating.  Dolly  used  to 
feel  just  as  I  do  about  it,"  she  added,  her 
eye  reproachfully  on  her  sister.  "It  is 
not  Thackeray's  fault  that  she  no  longer 
does." 

"It's  only  because  I've  finished  with  him," 
said  Mrs.  Jewks,  apologetically.  "Now  I 
want  something  different." 

"Dolly  and  I,"  explained  Mrs.  Barnes  to 
me,  "don't  always  see  alike.  I  have  a  theory 
that  one  doesn't  finish  with  the  Immortals." 

"Would  you  put  Thackeray—  "  I  began, 
diffidently. 

Mrs.  Barnes  stopped  me  at  once. 

"Our  father,"  she  said — again  my  hands 
instinctively  wanted  to  fold— "who  was  an 
excellent  judge,  indeed  a  specialist  if  I  may 
say  so,  placed  him  among  the  Immortals. 
Therefore  I  am  content  to  leave  him  there." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  119 

"But  isn't  that  filial  piety  rather  than— 
I  began  again,  still  diffident  but  also  obstinate. 

"In  any  case,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Barnes, 
raising  her  hand  as  though  I  were  the  traffic, 
"I  shall  never  forget  the  influence  he  and  the 
other  great  writers  of  the  period  had  upon  the 
boys." 

'The  boys?"  I  couldn't  help  inquiring, 
in  spite  of  this  being  an  interrogation. 

"Our  father  educated  boys.  On  an  unusual 
and  original  system.  Being  devoid  of  the 
classics,  which  he  said  was  all  the  better 
because  then  he  hadn't  to  spend  any  time 
remembering  them,  he  was  a  devoted  Eng- 
lish linquist.  Accordingly  he  taught  boys 
English — foreign  boys,  because  English  boys 
naturally  know  it  already,  and  his  method 
was  to  make  them  minutely  acquainted  with 
the  great  novels — the  great  wholesome  novels 
of  that  period.  Not  a  French,  or  Dutch,  or 
Italian  boy  but  went  home— 

"Or  German,"  put  in  Mrs.  Jewks.  "Most 
of  them  were  Germans." 

Mrs.  Barnes  turned  red.  "Let  us  forget 
them,"  she  said,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand. 
"It  is  my  earnest  desire,"  she  continued, 
looking  at  me,  "to  forget  Germans." 

"Do  let  us,"  I  said,  politely. 


120  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Not  one  of  the  boys,"  she  then  went  on, 
"but  returned  to  his  country  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  colloquial  English  of  the  best 
period,  and  of  the  noble  views  of  that  period 
as  expressed  by  the  noblest  men,  unobtain- 
able by  any  other  method.  Our  father  called 
himself  a  Non-Grammarian.  The  boys  went 
home  knowing  no  rules  of  grammar,  yet 
unable  to  talk  incorrectly.  Thackeray  him- 
self was  the  grammar,  and  his  characters  the 
teachers.  And  so  was  Dickens,  but  not 
quite  to  the  same  extent,  because  of  people 
like  Sam  Weller  who  might  have  taught 
the  boys  slang.  Thackeray  was  immensely 
interested  when  our  father  wrote  and  told 
him  about  the  school,  and  once  when  he  was 
in  London  he  invited  him  to  lunch." 

Not  quite  clear  as  to  who  was  in  London 
and  which  invited  which,  I  said,  "Who?" 

"It  was  our  father  who  went  to  London," 
said  Mrs.  Barnes,  "and  was  most  kindly 
entertained  by  Thackeray." 

"He  went  because  he  wasn't  there  already," 
explained  Mrs.  Jewks. 

"Dolly  means,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  "that  he 
did  not  live  in  London.  Our  father  was  an 
Oxford  man.  Not  in  the  narrow,  technical 
meaning  that  has  come  to  be  attached  to  the 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

term,  but  in  the  simple,  natural  sense  of  living 
there.  It  was  there  that  we  were  born,  and 
there  that  we  grew  up  in  an  atmosphere  of 
education.  We  saw  it  all  round  us  going  on 
in  the  different  colleges,  and  we  saw  it  in 
detail  and  at  first  hand  in  our  own  home. 
For  we,  too,  were  brought  up  on  Thackeray 
and  Dickens,  in  whom  our  father  said  we 
would  find  everything  girls  needed  to  know 
and  nothing  that  they  had  better  not." 

"I  used  to  have  a  perfect  itch,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Jewks,  "to  know  the  things  I  had  better 
not." 

And  Mrs.  Barnes  again  looked  at  me  as  one 
who  should  say,  "There.  \Vhat  did  I  tell 
you?  Such  a  word,  too.  Itch." 

There  was  a  silence.  I  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say  that  wouldn't  appear  either 
inquisitive  or  to  be  encouraging  Dolly. 

Mrs.  Barnes  sits  between  us.  This  arrange- 
ment of  our  chairs  on  the  grass  happened 
apparently  quite  naturally  the  first  day,  and 
now  has  become  one  that  I  feel  I  mustn't 
disturb.  For  me  to  drop  into  the  middle 
chair  would  somehow  now  be  impossible. 
It  is  Mrs.  Barnes's  place.  Yet  I  do  want  to 
sit  next  to  Mrs.  Jewks  and  talk  to  her.  Or, 
better  still,  go  for  a  walk  with  her.  But 


122  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Mrs.  Barnes  always  goes  for  the  walks,  either 
with  or  without  me,  but  never  without 
Mrs.  Jewks.  She  hasn't  yet  left  us  once 
alone  together.  If  anything  needs  fetching 
it  is  Mrs.  Jewks  who  fetches  it.  They  don't 
seem  to  want  to  write  letters,  but  if  they  did 
I  expect  they  would  both  go  in  to  write  them 
at  the  same  time. 

I  do  think,  though,  that  we  are  growing  a 
little  more  intimate  At  least  to-day  we 
have  talked  of  something  that  wasn't  the 
view.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  in  another 
week,  supposing  the  hot  weather  lasts  so  long, 
I  shall  be  asking  Mrs.  Barnes  outright  what 
it  is  Dolly  did  that  has  apparently  so  per- 
manently unnerved  her  sister. 

But  suppose  she  retaliated  by  asking  me— 
oh,  there  are  so  many  things  she  could  ask 
me  that  I  couldn't  answer!  Except  with 
the  shameful,  exposing  answer  of  beginning 
very  helplessly  to  cry.  .  .  . 

August  %4<th. 

Last  night  I  ran  after  Mrs.  Jewks  just  as 
she  was  disappearing  into  her  room  and  said, 
"I'm  going  to  call  you  Dolly.  I  don't  like 
Jewks.  How  do  you  spell  it?" 

"What— Dolly?"  she  asked,  smiling. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  123 

"No— Jewks." 

But  Mrs.  Barnes  came  out  of  her  bedroom 
and  said,  "Did  we  forget  to  bid  you  good- 
night? How  very  remiss  of  us." 

And  we  all  smiled  at  each  other,  and  went 
into  our  rooms,  and  shut  the  doors. 

August  %5th. 

The  behaviour  of  time  is  a  surprising  thing. 
I  can't  think  how  it  manages  to  make  weeks 
sometimes  seem  like  minutes  and  days  some- 
times seem  like  years.  Those  weeks  I  was 
here  alone  seemed  not  longer  than  a  few 
minutes.  These  days  since  my  guests  came 
seem  to  have  gone  on  for  months. 

I  suppose  it  is  because  they  have  been  so 
tightly  packed.  Nobody  coming  up  the  path 
and  seeing  the  three  figures  sitting  quietly  on 
the  terrace,  the  middle  one  knitting,  the  right- 
hand  one  reading  aloud,  the  left-hand  one 
sunk  apparently  in  stupor  would  guess  that 
these  creatures'  days  were  packed.  Many 
an  honest  slug  stirred  by  creditable  desires 
has  looked  more  animate  than  we.  Yet  the 
days  are  packed.  Mine,  at  any  rate,  are- 
packed  tight  with  an  immense  monotony. 

Every  day  we  do  exactly  the  same  things: 
breakfast,  read  aloud;  lunch,  read  aloud; 


124  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

tea,  go  for  a  walk;  supper,  read  aloud;  exhaus- 
tion; bed.  How  quick  and  short  it  is  to 
write  down,  and  how  endless  to  live.  At 
meals  we  talk,  and  on  the  walk  we  talk,  or 
rather  we  say  things.  At  meals  the  things 
wre  say  are  about  food,  and  on  the  walk  they 
are  about  mountains.  The  rest  of  the  time 
we  don't  talk,  because  of  the  reading  aloud. 
That  fills  up  every  gap;  that  muzzles  all 
conversation. 

I  don't  know  whether  Mrs.  Barnes  is  afraid 
I'll  ask  questions,  or  whether  she  is  afraid 
Dolly  will  start  answering  questions  that  I 
haven't  asked;  I  only  know  that  she  seems 
to  have  decided  that  safety  lies  in  putting 
an  extinguisher  on  talk.  At  the  same  time 
she  is  most  earnest  in  her  endeavours  to  be 
an  agreeable  guest,  and  is  all  politeness; 
but  so  am  I,  most  earnest  for  my  part  in  my 
desire  to  be  an  agreeable  hostess,  and  we  are 
both  so  dreadfully  polite  and  so  horribly 
considerate  that  things  end  by  being  exactly 
as  I  would  prefer  them  not  to  be. 

For  instance,  finding  Merivale — it  is  Mer- 
i vale's  "History  of  the  Romans  under  the 
Empire"  that  is  being  read — finding  him  too 
much  like  Gibbon  gone  sick  and  filled  with 
water,  a  Gibbon  with  all  the  kick  taken  out 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  125 

of  him,  shorn  of  his  virility  and  his  foot-notes, 
yesterday  I  didn't  go  and  sit  on  the  terrace 
after  breakfast,  but  took  a  volume  of  the 
authentic  Gibbon  and  departed  by  the  back 
door  for  a  walk. 

It  is  usually,  I  know,  a  bad  sign  when  a 
hostess  begins  to  use  the  back  door,  but  it 
wasn't  a  sign  of  anything  in  this  case  except 
a  great  desire  to  get  away  from  Merivale. 
After  lunch,  when,  strengthened  by  my 
morning,  I  prepared  to  listen  to  some  more 
of  him,  I  found  the  chairs  on  the  terrace 
empty,  and  from  the  window  of  Mrs.  Barnes's 
room  floated  down  the  familiar,  muffled  drone 
of  the  first  four  days. 

So  then  I  went  for  another  walk,  and 
thought.  And  the  result  was  polite,  affec- 
tionate protests  at  tea-time,  decorated  with 
some  amiable  untruths  about  domestic  affairs 
having  called  me  away — God  forgive  me, 
but  I  believe  I  said  it  was  the  laundress — and 
such  real  distress  on  Mrs.  Barnes's  part  at 
the  thought  of  having  driven  me  off  my  own 
terrace,  that  now  so  as  to  shield  her  from 
thinking  anything  so  painful  to  her  I  must 
needs  hear  Merivale  to  the  end. 

"Dolly,"  I  said,  meeting  her  by  some 
strange  chance  alone  on  the  stairs  going 


126  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

down  to  supper — invariably  the  sisters  go 
down  together—  "do  you  like  reading  aloud?" 

I  said  it  very  quickly  and  under  my  breath, 
for  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  would  certainly 
be  Mrs.  Barnes. 

"No,"  she  said,  also  under  her  breath. 

"Then  why  do  you  do  it?" 

"Do  you  like  listening?"  she  whispered, 
smiling. 

"No,"  I  said. 

"Then  why  do  you  do  it?" 

" Because—      "  I  said.   "Well,  because— 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  'Yes,"  she  whis- 
pered, "that's  my  reason,  too." 

August  %6th. 

All  day  to-day  I  have  emptied  myself  of 
any  wishes  of  my  own  and  tried  to  be  the 
perfect  hostess.  I  have  given  myself  up  to 
Mrs.  Barnes,  and  on  the  walk  I  followed 
where  she  led,  and  I  made  no  suggestions 
when  paths  crossed  though  I  have  secret 
passionate  preferences  in  paths,  and  I  rested 
on  the  exact  spot  she  chose  in  spite  of  know- 
ing there  was  a  much  prettier  one  just  round 
the  corner,  and  I  joined  with  her  in  admiring  a 
view  I  didn't  really  like.  In  fact,  I  merged 
myself  in  Mrs.  Barnes,  sitting  by  her  on  the 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  127 

mountain  side  in  much  the  spirit  of  Words- 
worth when  he  sat  by  his  cottage  fire  without 
ambition,  hope,  or  aim. 

August  21th. 

The  weather  blazes  along  in  its  hot  beauty. 
Each  morning,  the  first  thing  I  see  when  I 
open  my  eyes  is  the  great  patch  of  golden 
light  on  the  wrall  near  my  bed  that  means 
another  perfect  day.  Nearly  always  the  sky 
is  cloudless — a  deep,  incredible  blue.  Once 
or  twice,  when  I  have  gone  quite  early  to  my 
window  toward  the  east,  I  have  seen  what 
looked  to  my  sleepy  eyes  like  a  flock  of  little 
angels  floating  slowly  along  the  tops  of  the 
mountains,  or  at  any  rate,  if  not  the  angels 
themselves,  delicate  bright  tufts  of  feathers 
pulled  out  of  their  wings.  These  objects, 
on  waking  up  more  completely,  I  have  per- 
ceived to  be  clouds;  and  then  I  have  thought 
that  perhaps  that  day  there  would  be 
rain.  But  there  never  has  been  rain.  The 
clouds  have  floated  slowly  away  to  Italy,  and 
left  us  to  another  day  of  intense,  burning 
heat. 

I  don't  believe  the  weather  will  ever  break 
up.  Not  anyhow  for  a  long  time.  Not  any- 
how before  I  have  heard  Merivale  to  the  end. 


128  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

August  %8th. 

In  the  morning  when  I  get  up  and  go  and 
look  out  of  my  window  at  the  splendid  east 
I  don't  care  about  Merivale.  I  defy  him. 
And  I  make  up  my  mind  that  though  my 
body  may  be  present  at  the  reading  of  him 
so  as  to  avoid  distressing  Mrs.  Barnes  and 
driving  her  off  the  terrace — we  are  minute 
in  our  care  not  to  drive  each  other  off  the 
terrace — my  ears  shall  be  deaf  to  him  and 
my  imagination  shall  wander.  Who  is  Mer- 
ivale, that  he  shall  burden  my  memory 
with  even  shreds  of  his  unctuous  imitations? 
And  I  go  down  to  breakfast  with  a  fortified 
and  shining  spirit,  as  one  who  has  arisen 
refreshed  and  determined  from  prayer,  and 
out  on  the  terrace  I  do  shut  my  ears.  But  I 
think  there  must  be  chinks  in  them,  for 
I  find  my  mind  is  much  hung  about,  after 
all,  with  Merivale.  Bits  of  him.  Bits  like 
this: 

Propertius  is  deficient  in  that  light  touch  and 
exquisitely  polished  taste  which  volatilize  the 
sensuality  and  flattery  of  Horace.  The  play- 
fulness of  the  Sabine  bard  is  that  of  the  lapdog, 
while  the  Umbrian  reminds  us  of  the  pranks  of 
a  clumsier  and  less  tolerated  quadruped. 

This  is  what  you  write  if  you  want  to  write 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  129 

like  Gibbon,  and  yet  remain  at  the  same 
time  a  rector  and  chaplain  to  the  Speaker 
of  the  House  of  Commons;  and  this  bit  kept 
on  repeating  itself  in  my  head  like  a  tune 
during  luncheon  to-day.  It  worried  me  that 
I  couldn't  decide  what  the  clumsier  and  less 
tolerated  quadruped  was. 

"A  donkey,"  said  Mrs.  Jewks,  on  my  asking 
my  guests  what  they  thought. 

"  Surely,  yes — an  ass,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes, 
whose  words  are  always  picked. 

"But  why  should  a  donkey  be  less  tolerated 
than  a  lapdog?"  I  asked.  "I  would  tolerate 
it  more.  If  I  might  tolerate  only  one,  it 
would  certainly  be  the  donkey." 

"Perhaps  he  means  a  flea,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Jewks. 

"Dolly,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes. 

"But  fleas  do  go  in  for  pranks,  and  are  less 
tolerated  than  lapdogs,"  said  Mrs.  Jewks. 

"Dolly,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes  again. 

"Except  that,"  I  said,  not  heeding  Mrs. 
Barnes  for  a  moment  in  my  pleasure  at 
having  got  away  from  the  usual  luncheon- 
table  talk  of  food,  "haven't  fleas  got  more 
than  four  legs?" 

'That's  centipedes,"  said  Dolly. 

"Then  it's  two  legs  that  they've  got." 


130  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"That's  birds,"  said  Dolly. 

We  looked  at  each  other  and  began  to 
laugh.  It  was  the  first  time  we  had  laughed, 
and  once  we  had  begun  we  laughed  and 
laughed,  in  that  foolish  way  one  does  about 
completely  idiotic  things  when  one  knows  one 
oughtn't  to  and  hasn't  for  a  long  while. 

There  sat  Mrs.  Barnes,  straight  and  rocky, 
with  worried  eyes.  She  never  smiled;  and 
indeed  why  should  she.  But  the  more  she 
didn't  smile  the  more  we  laughed — helplessly, 
ridiculously.  It  was  dreadful  to  laugh,  dread- 
ful to  mention  objects  that  distressed  her 
as  vulgar;  and  because  it  was  dreadful  and 
we  knew  it  was  dreadful,  we  couldn't  stop. 
So  was  I  once  overcome  with  deplorable 
laughter  in  church,  only  because  a  cat  came 
in.  So  have  I  seen  an  ill-starred  woman  fall  a 
prey  to  unseasonable  mirth  at  a  wedding.  We 
laughed  positively  to  tears.  We  couldn't 
stop.  I  did  try  to.  I  was  really  greatly 
ashamed.  For  I  was  doing  what  I  now  feel 
in  all  my  bones  is  the  thing  Mrs.  Barnes 
dreads  most — I  was  encouraging  Dolly. 

Afterward,  when  we  had  settled  down  to 
Merivale,  and  Dolly  finding  she  had  left  the 
book  upstairs  went  in  to  fetch  it,  I  begged 
Mrs.  Barnes  to  believe  that  I  wasn't  often 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  131 

quite  so  silly  and  didn't  suppose  I  would  be 
like  that  again. 

She  was  very  kind,  and  laid  her  hand  for  a 
moment  on  mine — such  a  bony  hand,  marked 
all  over,  I  thought  as  I  looked  down  at  it, 
with  the  traces  of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice. 
That  hand  had  never  had  leisure  to  get  fat. 
It  may  have  had  it  in  the  spacious  days  of 
Mr.  Barnes,  but  the  years  afterward  had 
certainly  been  lean  ones;  and  since  the  war, 
since  the  selling  of  her  house  and  the  begin- 
ning of  the  evidently  wearing  occupation  of 
what  she  had  called  standing  by  Dolly,  the 
years,  I  understand,  have  been  so  lean  that 
they  were  practically  bone. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "I  have  perhaps  got 
into  the  way  of  being  too  serious.  It  is 
because  Dolly,  I  consider,  is  not  serious 
enough.  If  she  were  more  so  I  would  be  less 
so,  and  that  would  be  better  for  us  both. 
Oh,  you  mustn't  suppose,"  she  added,  "that 
I  cannot  enjoy  a  joke  as  merrily  as  anybody." 
And  she  smiled  broadly  and  amazingly  at 
me,  the  rockiest,  most  determined  smile. 

'There  wasn't  any  joke,  and  we  were  just 
absurd,"  I  said,  penitently,  in  my  turn  lay- 
ing my  hand  on  hers.  "Forgive  me.  I'm 
always  sorry  and  ashamed  when  I  have 


132  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

behaved  as  though  I  were  ten.  I  do  try  not 
to,  but  sometimes  it  comes  upon  one  un- 
expectedly— 

"Dolly  is  a  little  old  to  behave  as  though 
she  were  ten,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  in  sorrow 
rather  than  in  anger. 

"And  I'm  a  little  old,  too.  It's  very 
awkward  when  you  aren't  so  old  inside  as  you 
are  outside.  For  years  I've  been  trying  to 
be  dignified,  and  I'm  always  being  tripped 
up  by  a  kind  of  apparently  incurable  natural 
effervescence." 

Mrs.  Barnes  looked  grave. 
^  "That  is  what  is  the  matter  with  Dolly," 
she    said.     "Just    that.     How    strange    that 
you    should    have    met.     For   it    isn't    usual. 
I  cannot  believe  it  is  usual.     All  her  troubles 
have  been  caused  by  it.     I  do  not,  however, 
regard   it    as   incurable.     On   the   contrary— 
I  have  helped  her  to  check  it,  and  she  is  much 
better  than  she  was." 

"But  what  are  you  afraid  she  will  do  now  ?" 
I  asked;  and  Dolly,  coming  out  with  the 
book  under  her  arm  and  that  funny  little  air 
of  jauntiness  that  triumphs  when  she  walks 
over  her  sobering  black  skirt  and  white  cotton 
petticoat,  prevented  my  getting  an  answer. 

But  I   felt   in   great   sympathy   with   Mrs. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  133 

Barnes.  And  when,  starting  for  our  walk 
after  tea,  something  happened  to  Dolly's 
boot — I  think  the  heel  came  off — and  she  had 
to  turn  back,  I  gladly  went  on  alone  with 
her  sister,  hoping  that  perhaps  she  would 
continue  to  talk  on  these  more  intimate  lines. 
And  so  she  did. 

"Dolly,"  she  said  almost  immediately, 
almost  before  we  had  got  round  the  turn  of 
the  path,  "is  the  object  of  my  tenderest 
solicitude  and  love." 

"I  know.  I  see  that,"  I  said,  sympathet- 
ically. 

"She  was  the  object  of  my  love  from  the 
moment  when  she  was  laid,  a  new-born  baby, 
in  the  arms  of  the  little  ten-year-old  girl  I 
was  then,  and  she  became,  as  she  grew  up 
and  developed  the  characteristics  I  associate 
with  her  name,  the  object  of  my  solicitude. 
Indeed,  of  my  concern." 

"I  wish,"  I  said,  as  she  stopped  and  I  began 
to  be  afraid  this  once  more  was  to  be  all  and 
the  shutters  were  going  to  be  shut  again, 
"we  might  be  real  friends." 

"Are  we  not?"  asked  Mrs.  Barnes,  looking 
anxious,  as  though  she  feared  she  had  failed 
somewhere  in  her  duties  as  a  guest. 

"Oh,  yes — we  are  friends,  of  course,  but  I 


134  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

meant  by  real  friends  people  who  talk  to- 
gether about  anything  and  everything.  Al- 
most anything  and  everything,"  I  amended. 
"  People  who  tell  each  other  things,"  I  went 
on,  hesitatingly.  "Most  things,"  I  amended. 

"I  have  a  great  opinion  of  discretion,"  said 
Mrs.  Barnes. 

"I  am  sure  you  have.  But  don't  you 
think  that  sometimes  the  very  essence  of  real 
friendship  consists  in— 

"Mr.  Barnes  always  had  his  own  dressing- 
room." 

This  was  unexpected  and  it  silenced  me. 
After  a  moment  I  said,  lamely,  "I'm  sure  he 
did.     But    you    were    saying    about    Dol— 
about  Mrs.  Jewks 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Barnes  sighed.  "Well,  it 
cannot  harm  you  or  her,"  she  went  on  after  a 
pause,  "for  me  to  tell  you  that  the  first  thing 
Dolly  did  as  soon  as  she  was  grown  up  was 
to  make  an  impetuous  marriage." 

"Isn't  that  rather  what  most  of  us  begin 
with?" 

"  Few  are  so  impetuous.  Mine,  for  instance, 
was  not.  Mine  wras  the  considered  union  of 
affection  with  regard,  entered  into  properly 
in  the  eye  of  all  men,  and  accompanied  by  the 
good  wishes  of  relations  and  friends.  Dolly's 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  135 

—well,  Dolly's  was  impetuous.  I  cannot 
say  ill-advised,  because  she  asked  no  one's 
advice.  She  plunged — it  is  not  too  strong  a 
word,  and  unfortunately  can  be  applied  to 
some  of  her  subsequent  movements — into 
a  misalliance,  and  in  order  to  contract  it 
she  let  herself  down  secretly  at  night  from 
her  bedroom  window  by  means  of  a  sheet." 

Mrs.  Barnes  paused. 

"How  very — how  very  spirited,"  I  couldn't 
help  murmuring. 

Indeed  I  believe  I  felt  a  little  jealous. 
Nothing  in  my  own  past  approaches  this  in 
enterprise.  And  I  not  only  doubted  if  I 
would  ever  have  had  the  courage  to  commit 
myself  to  a  sheet,  but  I  felt  a  momentary 
vexation  that  no  one  had  ever  suggested  that 
on  his  account  I  should.  Compared  to  Dolly, 
I  am  a  poor  thing. 

"So  you  can  understand,"  continued  Mrs. 
Barnes,  "how  earnestly  I  wish  to  keep  my 
sister  to  lines  of  normal  conduct.  She  has 
been  much  punished  for  her  departures  from 
them.  I  am  very  anxious  that  nothing  should 
be  said  to  her  that  might  seem — well,  that 
might  seem  to  be  even  slightly  in  sympathy 
with  actions  or  ways  of  looking  at  life  that 
have  in  the  past  brought  her  unhappiness, 


136  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  can  only  in  the  future  bring  her  yet 
more." 

"But  why,"  I  asked,  still  thinking  of  the 
sheet,  "didn't  she  go  out  to  be  married 
through  the  front  door?" 

"Because  our  father  would  never  have 
allowed  his  front  door  to  be  used  for  such  a 
marriage.  You  forget  that  it  was  a  school, 
and  she  was  running  away  with  somebody 
who  up  till  a  year  or  two  previously  had  been 
one  of  the  pupils." 

"Oh?     Did  she  marry  a  foreigner?" 

Mrs.  Barnes  flushed  a  deep,  painful  red. 
She  is  brown  and  weather-beaten,  yet  through 
the  brownness  spread  unmistakeably  this 
deep  red.  Obviously  she  had  forgotten  what 
she  told  me  the  other  day  about  the  boys 
all  being  foreigners. 

"Let  us  not  speak  evil  of  the  dead,"  she 
said  with  awful  solemnity;  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  walk  would  talk  of  nothing  but  the 
view. 

But  in  my  room  to-night  I  have  been 
thinking.  There  are  guests  and  guests,  and 
some  guests  haunt  one.  These  guests  are 
that  kind.  They  wouldn't  haunt  me  so 
much  if  only  we  could  be  really  friends; 
but  we'll  never  be  reallv  friends  as  long  as  I 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  137 

am  kept  from  talking  to  Dolly  and  between 
us  is  fixed  the  rugged  and  hitherto  un- 
scaleable  barrier  of  Mrs.  Barnes.  Perhaps 
to-morrow,  if  I  have  the  courage,  I  shall 
make  a  great  attempt  at  friendship — at  what 
Mrs.  Barnes  would  call  being  thoroughly 
indiscreet.  For  isn't  it  senseless  for  us  three 
women,  up  here  alone  together,  to  spend  the 
precious  days  when  we  might  be  making 
friends  for  life  hiding  away  from  each  other? 
Why  can't  I  be  told  outright  that  Dolly 
married  a  German?  Evidently  she  did; 
and  if  she  could  bear  it  I  am  sure  I  can. 
Twenty  years  ago  it  might  have  happened 
to  us  all.  Twenty  years  ago  I  might  have 
done  it  myself,  except  that  there  wasn't  the 
German  living  who  would  have  got  me  to  go 
down  a  sheet  for  him.  And  anyhow  Dolly's 
German  is  dead;  and  doesn't  even  a  German 
leave  off  being  one  after  he  is  dead? 
Wouldn't  he  naturally  incline,  by  the  sheer 
action  of  time,  to  dissolve  into  neutrality? 
It  doesn't  seem  humane  to  pursue  him  into 
the  recesses  of  eternity  as  an  alien  enemy. 
Besides,  I  thought  the  war  was  over. 

For  a  long  while  to-night  I  have  been 
leaning  out  of  my  window  thinking.  When 
I  look  at  the  stars  I  don't  mind  about  Ger- 


138  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

mans.  It  seems  impossible  to.  I  believe 
if  Mrs.  Barnes  would  look  at  them  she 
wouldn't  be  nearly  so  much  worried.  It  is 
a  very  good  practice,  I  think,  to  lean  out 
of  one's  window  for  a  space  before  going  to 
bed  and  let  the  cool  darkness  wash  over  one. 
After  being  all  day  with  people,  how  blessed 
a  thing  it  is  not  to  be  with  them.  The  night 
to-night  is  immensely  silent,  and  I've  been 
standing  so  quiet,  so  motionless  that  I  would 
have  heard  the  smallest  stirring  of  a  leaf. 
But  nothing  is  stirring.  The  air  is  quite 
still.  There  isn't  a  sound.  The  mountains 
seem  to  be  brooding  over  a  valley  that  has 
gone  to  sleep. 


August 

Antoine  said  to  me  this  morning  that  he 
thought  if  ces  dames  —  so  he  always  speaks 
of  Mrs.  Barnes  and  Dolly  —  were  going  to  stay 
any  time,  perhaps  an  assistant  for  Mrs. 
Antoine  had  better  be  engaged;  because  Mrs. 
Antoine  might  otherwise  possibly  presently 
begin  to  find  the  combination  of  heat  and 
visitors  a  little— 

"Of  course,"  I  said.  "Naturally  she  might. 
I  regret,  Antoine,  that  I  did  not  think  of  this. 
Why  did  you  not  point  it  out  sooner?  I 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  139 

will  go  myself  this  very  day  and  search  for 
an  assistant." 

Antoine  said  that  such  exertions  were  not 
for  Madame,  and  that  it  was  he  who  would 
search  for  the  assistant. 

I  said  he  couldn't  possibly  leave  the  chick- 
ens and  the  cow,  and  that  it  was  I  who  would 
search  for  the  assistant. 

So  that  is  what  I  have  been  doing  all  day- 
having  a  most  heavenly  time  wandering 
from  village  to  village  along  the  mountain 
side,  my  knapsack  over  my  arm  and  freedom 
in  my  heart.  The  knapsack  had  food  in  it 
and  a  volume  of  Crabbe,  because  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  how  long  the  search  might 
last,  and  I  couldn't  not  be  nourished.  I 
explained  to  my  guests  how  easily  I  mightn't 
be  back  till  the  evening,  I  commended  them 
to  the  special  attentiveness  of  the  Antoines, 
and  off  I  went,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Barnes's 
commiseration  that  I  should  have  to  be 
engaged  on  so  hot  a  day  in  what  she  with 
felicitous  exactness  called  a  domestic  pursuit, 
and  trying  very  hard  not  to  be  too  evidently 
pleased. 

I  went  to  the  villages  that  lie  in  the  direc- 
tion of  my  lovely  place  of  larches,  and  having 
after  some  search  found  the  assistant  I 


140  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

continued  on  toward  the  west,  walking  fast, 
almost  as  if  people  would  know  I  had  accom- 
plished what  I  had  come  out  for,  and  might 
catch  me  and  take  me  home  again. 

As  I  walked  it  positively  was  quite  difficult 
not  to  sing.  Only  hostesses  know  this  pure 
joy.  To  feel  so  deep  and  peculiar  an  ex- 
hilaration you  must  have  been  having  guests 
and  still  be  having  them.  Before  my  guests 
came  I  might  and  did  roam  about  as  I  chose, 
but  it  was  never  like  to-day,  never  with  that 
holiday  feeling.  Oh,  I  have  had  a  wonderful 
day!  Everything  was  delicious.  I  don't  re- 
member having  smelt  the  woods  so  good,  and 
there  hasn't  ever  been  anything  like  the  deep, 
cool  softness  of  the  grass  I  lay  on  at  lunch- 
time.  I  And  Crabbe  the  delightful — why  don't 
people  talk  more  about  Crabbe?  Why  don't 
they  read  him  more?  I  have  him  in  eight 
volumes;  none  of  your  little  books  of  selec- 
tions, which  somehow  take  away  all  his  true 
flavour,  but  every  bit  of  him  from  beginning 
to  end.  Nobody  ever  made  so  many  couplets 
that  fit  into  so  many  occasions  of  one's  life. 
I  believe  I  could  describe  my  daily  life  with 
Mrs.  Barnes  and  Dolly  entirely  in  couplets 
from  Crabbe.  It  is  the  odd  fate  of  liis 
writings  to  have  turned  by  the  action  of 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  141 

time  from  serious  to  droll.  He  decomposes, 
as  it  were,  hilariously.  I  lay  for  hours  this 
afternoon  enjoying  his  neat  couplets.  He 
enchants  me.  I  forget  time  when  I  am  with 
him.  It  was  Crabbe  who  made  me  late  for 
supper.  But  he  is  the  last  person  one  takes 
out  for  a  walk  with  one  if  one  isn't  happy. 
Crabbe  is  a  barometer  of  serenity.  You 
have  to  be  in  a  cloudless  mood  to  enjoy  him. 
I  wras  in  that  mood  to-day.  I  had  escaped. 

Well,  I  have  had  my  outing,  I  have  had 
my  little  break,  and  have  come  back  filled 
with  renewed  zeal  to  my  guests.  When  I 
said  good-night  to-night  I  was  so  much 
pleased  with  everything  and  felt  so  happily 
and  comfortably  affectionate  that  I  not  only 
kissed  Dolly  but  embarked  adventurously  on 
an  embrace  of  Mrs.  Barnes. 

She  received  it  with  surprise  but  kindliness. 

I  think  she  considered  I  was  perhaps  being 
a  little  impulsive. 

I  think  perhaps  I  was. 

August  30th. 

In  the  old  days  before  the  war  this  house 
was  nearly  always  full  of  friends — guests, 
for  they  were  invited,  but  they  never  were  in 
or  on  my  mind  as  guests,  and  I  don't  remem- 


142        IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

her  ever  feeling  that  I  was  hostess.  The 
impression  I  now  have  of  them  is  that  they 
were  all  very  young;  but  of  course  they 
weren't.  Some  were  quite  as  old  as  Mrs. 
Barnes,  and  once  or  twice  came  people 
even  older.  They  all,  however,  had  this  in 
common,  that  whatever  their  age  was  when 
they  arrived  by  the  time  they  left  they  were 
not  more  than  twenty. 

I  can't  explain  this.  It  couldn't  only  have 
been  the  air,  invigorating  and  inspiriting 
though  it  is,  because  my  present  guests  are 
still  exactly  the  same  age  as  the  first  day. 
That  is,  Mrs.  Barnes  is.  Dolly  is  of  no  age- 
she  never  was  and  never  will  be  forty;  but 
Mrs.  Barnes  is  just  as  firmly  fifty  as  she  was  a 
fortnight  ago,  and  it  only  used  to  take  those 
other  guests  a  week  to  shed  every  one  of 
their  years  except  the  first  twenty. 

Is  it  this  static,  rock-like  quality  in  Mrs. 
Barnes  that  makes  her  remain  so  unchange- 
ably a  guest,  that  makes  her  unable  to 
develop  into  a  friend?  Why  must  I,  be- 
cause she  insists  on  remaining  a  guest,  be 
kept  so  firmly  in  my  proper  place  as  hostess? 
I  want  to  be  friends.  I  feel  as  full  of  friendli- 
ness as  a  brimming  cup.  Why  am  I  not  let 
spill  some  of  it?  I  should  love  to  be  friends 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  143 

with  Dolly,  and  I  would  like  very  much  to 
be  friends  with  Mrs.  Barnes.  Not  that  I 
think  she  and  I  would  ever  be  intimate  in 
the  way  I  am  sure  Dolly  and  I  would  be  after 
ten  minutes  together  alone,  but  we  might 
develop  a  mutually  indulgent  affection.  I 
would  respect  her  prejudices,  and  she  would 
forgive  me  that  I  have  so  few,  and  perhaps 
find  it  interesting  to  help  me  to  increase  them. 
But  the  anxious  care  with  which  Mrs. 
Barnes  studies  to  be  her  idea  of  a  perfect 
guest  forces  me  to  a  corresponding  anxious 
care  to  be  her  idea  of  a  perfect  hostess.  I 
find  it  wearing.  There  is  no  easy  friendliness 
for  us,  no  careless  talk,  no  happy  go-as-you- 
please  and  naturalness.  And  ought  a  guest 
to  be  so  constantly  grateful?  Her  gratitude 
is  almost  a  reproach.  It  makes  me  ashamed 
of  myself;  as  if  I  were  a  plutocrat,  a  profiteer, 
a  bloated  possessor  of  more  than  my  share, 
a  bestower  of  favours — of  all  odious  things  to 
be!  Now  I  perceive  that  I  never  have  had 
guests  before,  but  only  friends.  For  the 
first  time  I  am  really  entertaining;  or  rather, 
owing  to  the  something  in  Mrs.  Barnes  that 
induces  in  me  a  strange  submissiveness,  a 
strange  acceptance  of  her  ordering  of  our 
days,  I  am  for  the  first  time,  not  only  in  my 


144  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

own  house,  but  in  any  house  that  I  can  re- 
member where  I  have  stayed,  being  enter- 
tained. 

What  is  it  about  Mrs.  Barnes  that  makes 
Dolly  and  me  sit  so  quiet  and  good?  I 
needn't  ask:  I  know.  It  is  because  she  is 
single-minded,  unselfish,  genuinely  and  deeply 
anxious  for  everybody's  happiness  and  welfare, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  hurt  such  goodness. 
Accordingly  we  are  bound  hand  and  foot  to 
her  wishes,  exactly  as  if  she  were  a  tyrant. 

Dolly,  of  course,  must  be  bound  by  a  thou- 
sand reasons  for  gratitude.  Hasn't  Mrs. 
Barnes  given  up  everything  for  her?  Hasn't 
she  given  up  home,  and  livelihood,  and  country 
and  friends  to  come  and  be  with  her?  It  is  she 
who  magnanimously  bears  the  chief  burden  of 
Dolly's  marriage.  Without  having  had  any 
of  the  joys  of  Siegfried — I  can't  think  Dolly 
would  mutter  a  name  in  her  sleep  that  wasn't 
her  husband's — she  has  spent  these  years  of 
war  cheerfully  accepting  the  results  of  him, 
devoting  herself  to  the  forlorn  and  stranded 
German  wridow,  spending  her  life  and  what 
substance  she  has  in  keeping  her  company  in 
the  dreary  pensions  of  a  neutral  country,  un- 
able either  to  take  her  home  to  England  or  to 
leave  her  where  she  is  bv  herself. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  145 

Such  love  and  self-sacrifice  is  a  very  binding 
thing.  If  these  conjectures  of  mine  are 
right,  Dolly  is  indeed  bound  to  Mrs.  Barnes, 
and  not  to  do  everything  she  wished  would 
be  impossible.  Naturally  she  wears  those 
petticoats,  and  those  long,  respectable  black 
clothes:  they  are  Mrs.  Barnes's  idea  of  how 
a  widow  should  be  dressed.  Naturally  she 
goes  for  excursions  in  the  mountains  with  an 
umbrella:  it  is  to  Mrs.  Barnes  both  more 
prudent  and  more  seemly  than  a  stick.  In 
the  smallest  details  of  her  life  Dolly's  grati- 
tude must  penetrate  and  be  expressed.  Yes; 
I  think  I  understand  her  situation.  J  The 
good  do  bind  one  very  heavily  in  chains.  / 

To  an  infinitely  less  degree  Mrs.  Barnes's 
goodness  has  put  chains  on  me,  too.  I  have 
to  walk  very  carefully  and  delicately  among 
her  feelings.  I  could  never  forgive  myself  if 
I  were  to  hurt  any  one  kind,  and  if  the  kind 
person  is  cast  in  an  entirely  different  mould 
from  oneself,  has  different  ideas,  different 
tastes,  a  different  or  no  sense  of  fun,  why 
then  God  help  one — one  is  ruled  by  a  rod  of 
iron. 

Just  the  procession  each  morning  after 
breakfast  to  the  chairs  and  Merivale  is  the 
measure  of  Dolly's  and  my  subjection.  First 


146  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

goes  Dolly  with  the  book,  then  comes  Mrs. 
Barnes  with  her  knitting,  and  then  comes 
me,  casting  my  eyes  about  for  a  plausible 
excuse  for  deliverance  and  finding  none  that 
wouldn't  hurt.  If  I  lag,  Mrs.  Barnes  looks 
uneasily  at  me  with  her,  "Am  I  driving  you 
off  your  own  terrace?"  look;  and  once  when 
I  lingered  indoors  on  the  pretext  of  house- 
keeping she  came  after  me,  anxiety  on  her 
face,  and  begged  me  to  allow  her  to  help  me, 
fo  it  is  she  and  Dolly,  she  explained,  who  of 
course  cause  the  extra  housekeeping,  and  it 
distressed  her  to  think  that  owing  to  my 
goodness  in  permitting  them  to  be  here  I 
should  be  deprived  of  the  leisure  I  would 
otherwise  be  enjoying. 

"In  your  lovely  Swiss  home,"  she  said,  her 
face  puckered  with  earnestness.  "On  your 
summer  holiday.  After  travelling  all  this 
distance  for  the  purpose." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Barnes—  I  murmured, 

ashamed;  and  assured  her  it  was  only  an  order 
I  had  to  give,  and  that  I  was  coming  out 
immediately  to  the  reading  aloud. 

August  31  st. 

This  morning  I  made  a  great  effort  to  be 
simple. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  147 

Of  course  I  will  do  everything  in  my  power 
to  make  Mrs.  Barnes  happy — I'll  sit,  walk, 
be  read  to,  keep  away  from  Dolly,  arrange 
life  for  the  little  time  she  is  here  in  the  way 
that  gives  her  mind  most  peace;  but  why 
mayn't  I  at  the  same  time  be  natural?  It 
is  so  natural  to  me  to  be  natural.  I  feel  so 
uncomfortable,  I  get  such  a  choked  sensation 
of  not  enough  air,  if  I  can't  say  what  I  want 
to  say.  /Abstinence  from  naturalness  is  easily 
managed  if  it  isn't  to  last  long;  every  grace- 
fulness is  possible  for  a  little  while.  But 
shut  up  for  weeks  together  in  the  close  com- 
panionship of  two  other  people  in  an  isolated 
house  on  a  mountain  one  must,  sooner  or  later, 
be  natural  or  one  will,  sooner  or  later,  die.,y 

So  this  morning  I  went  down  to  breakfast 
determined  to  be  it.  More  than  usually  deep 
sleep  had  made  me  wake  up  with  a  feeling 
of  more  than  usual  enterprise.  I  dressed 
quickly,  strengthening  my  determination  by 
many  good  arguments,  and  then  stood  at  the 
window  waiting  for  the  bell  to  ring. 

At  the  first  tinkle  of  the  bell  I  hurry  down- 
stairs, because  if  I  am  a  minute  late,  as  I 
have  been  once  or  twice,  I  find  my  egg  wrap- 
ped up  in  my  table  napkin,  the  coffee  and 
hot  milk  swathed  in  a  white  woollen  shawl 


148  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Mrs.  Barnes  carries  about  with  her,  a  plate 
over  the  butter  in  case  there  should  be  dust,  a 
plate  over  the  honey  in  case  there  should  be 
flies,  and  Mrs.  Barnes  and  Dolly,  carefully 
detached  from  the  least  appearance  of  re- 
proach or  waiting,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
terrace  being  tactfully  interested  in  the  view. 
This  has  made  me  be  very  punctual.  The 
bell  tinkles,  and  I  appear.  I  don't  appear 
before  it  tinkles,  because  of  the  peculiar 
preciousness  of  all  the  moments  I  can  legiti- 
mately spend  in  my  bedroom;  but,  if  I  were 
to,  I  would  find  Mrs.  Barnes  and  Dolly  already 
there.  I  don't  know  when  they  go  down, 
but  they  are  always  there;  and  always  I  am 
greeted  with  the  politest  solicitude  from 
Mrs.  Barnes  as  to  how  I  slept.  This,  of  course, 
draws  forth  a  corresponding  solicitude  from 
me  as  to  how  Mrs.  Barnes  slept;  and  the 
first  part  of  breakfast  is  spent  in  answers  to 
these  inquiries  and  in  the  eulogies  to  which 
Mrs.  Barnes  then  proceeds  of  the  bed  and  the 
pure  air  that  make  the  satisfactoriness  of  her 
answers  possible.  From  this  she  goes  on  to 
tell  me  how  grateful  she  and  Dolly  are  for  my 
goodness.  She  tells  me  this  every  morning. 
It  is  like  a  kind  of  daily  morning  prayer.  At 
first  I  was  overcome,  and  not  knowing  how 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  149 

to  ward  off  such  repeated  blows  of  thankful- 
ness stumbled  about  awkwardly  among  pro- 
tests and  assurances.  Now  I  receive  them  in 
silence,  copying  the  example  of  the  heavenly 
authorities;  but, more  visibly  embarrassed  than 
they,  I  sheepishly  smile. 

After  the  praises  of  my  goodness  come 
those  of  the  goodness  of  the  coffee  and  the 
butter,  though  this  isn't  any  real  relief  to  me, 
because  their  goodness  is  so  much  tangled  up 
in  mine.  I  am  the  Author  of  the  coffee  and 
the  butter;  without  me  they  wouldn't  be 
there  at  all. 

Dolly,  while  this  is  going  on,  says  nothing 
but  just  eats  her  breakfast.  I  think  she  might 
help  me  out  a  little,  seeing  that  it  happens 
every  morning  and  that  she  must  have  noticed 
my  store  of  deprecations  is  exhausted. 

This  morning,  having  made  up  my  mind  to 
be  natural,  I  asked  her  straight  out  why  she 
didn't  talk. 

She  was  in  the  middle  of  her  egg,  and 
Mrs.  Barnes  was  in  the  middle  of  praising 
the  great  goodness  of  the  eggs,  and  therefore, 
inextricably,  of  my  great  goodness,  so  that 
there  was  no  real  knowing  where  the  eggs  left 
off  and  I  began;  and  taking  the  opportunity 
offered  by  a  pause  of  coffee-drinking  on 


150  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Mrs.  Barnes's  part,  I  said  to  Dolly,  "Why  do 
you  not  talk  at  breakfast?" 

"Talk?"  repeated  Dolly,  looking  up  at  me 
with  a  smile. 

"Yes.  Say  things.  How  are  we  ever  to 
be  friends  if  we  don't  say  things?  Don't 
you  want  to  be  friends,  Dolly?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Dolly,  smiling. 

Mrs.    Barnes   put   her   cup   down   hastily. 

"  But  are  we  not "  she  began,  as  I  knew  she 

would. 

"Real  friends,"  I  interrupted.  "Why  not," 
I  said,  "let  us  have  a  holiday  from  Merivale 
to-day,  and  just  sit  together  and  talk.  Say 
things,"  I  went  on,  still  determined  to  be 
natural  yet  already  a  little  nervous.  "Real 
things." 

"But  has  the  reading — is  there  any  other 
book  you  would  pref — do  you  not  care  about 
Merivale?"  asked  Mrs.  Barnes,  in  deep  con- 
cern. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  assured  her,  leaving  off  being 
natural  for  a  moment  in  order  to  be  polite, 
"I  like  him  very  much  indeed.  I  only 
thought — I  do  think — it  would  be  pleasant 
for  once  to  have  a  change.  Pleasant  just  to 
sit  and  talk.  Sit  in  the  shade  and — oh,  well, 
say  things." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  151 

"Yes,"  said  Dolly.     "I'd  love  to." 

"We  might  tell  each  other  stories,  like  the 

people  in  the    'Earthly  Paradise.'      But  real 

stories.     Out  of  our  lives." 

"Yes,"  said  Dolly  again.  "Yes.  I'd  love 
to." 

"We  shall  be  very  glad,  I  am  sure,"  said 
Mrs.  Barnes,  politely,  "to  listen  to  any  stories 
you  may  like  to  tell  us." 

"Ah,  but  you  must  tell  some,  too — we 
must  play  fair." 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Dolly  again,  her  dimple 
flickering. 

"Surely  we — in  any  case  Dolly  and  I — are 
too  old  to  play  at  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes 
with  dignity. 

"Not  really.  You'll  like  it  once  you've 
begun.  And  anyhow  I  can't  play  by  myself, 
can  I?"  I  said,  still  trying  to  be  gay  and 
simple.  ''You  wouldn't  want  me  to  be 
lonely,  would  you?" 

But  I  was  faltering.  Mrs.  Barnes's  eye 
was  on  me.  Impossible  to  go  on  being  gay 
and  simple  beneath  that  eye. 

1  faltered  more  and  more.  "Sometimes  I 
think,"  I  said,  almost  timidly,  "that  we're 
wasting  time." 

"Oh,  no,  do  you   really?"  exclaimed   Mrs. 


152  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Barnes,  anxiously.  "Do  you  not  consider 
Merivale—  "  (here  if  I  had  been  a  man  I  would 
have  said  Damn  Merivale  and  felt  better)— 
"very  instructive?  Surely  to  read  a  good 
history  can  never  be  wasting  time?  And  he 
is  not  heavy.  Surely  you  do  not  find  him 
heavy?  His  information  is  always  imparted 
picturesquely — remarkably  so.  And  though 
one  may  be  too  old  for  games  one  is  fortu- 
nately never  too  old  for  instruction. 

"I  don't  feel  too  old  for  games,"  said  Dolly, 

"Feeling  has  nothing  to  do  with  reality," 
said  Mrs.  Barnes,  sternly,  turning  on  her. 

"I  only  thought,"  I  said,  "that  to-day  we 
might  talk  together  instead  of  reading.  Just 
for  once — just  for  a  change.  If  you  don't 
like  the  idea  of  telling  stories  out  of  our  lives 
let  us  just  talk.  Tell  each  other  what  we 
think  of  things — of  the  big  things  like — well, 
like  love  and  death  for  instance.  Things," 
I  reassured  her,  "that  don't  really  touch  us 
at  this  moment." 

"I  do  not  care  to  talk  about  love  and 
death,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  frostily. 

"But  why?" 

'They  are  most  unsettling." 

"But  why?  We  would  only  be  specu- 
lating- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  153 

She  held  up  her  hand.  "I  have  a  horror 
of  the  word.  All  speculation  is  abhorrent  to 
me.  My  brother-in-law  said  to  me,  Never 
speculate." 

"But    didn't    he    mean    in    the    business 

?»5 
^.^. 

"He  meant  it,  I  am  certain,  in  every  sense. 
Physically  and  morally." 

"Well,  then,  don't  let  us  speculate.  Let  us 
talk  about  experiences.  We've  all  had  them. 
I  am  sure  it  would  be  as  instructive  as  Mer- 
ivale,  and  we  might  perhaps — perhaps  we 
might  even  laugh  a  little.  Don't  you  think 
it  would  be  pleasant  to — to  laugh  a  little?" 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Dolly,  her  eyes  shining. 

"Suppose  instead  of  being  women  we  were 
three  men- 
Mrs.  Barnes,  who  had  been  stiffening  for 
some  minutes,  drew  herself  up  at  this. 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  possibly  suppose 
that,"  she  said. 

"Well,  but  suppose  we  were— 

"I  do  not  wish  to  suppose  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Barnes. 

"Well,  then,  suppose  it  wasn't  us  at  all, 
but  three  men  here,  spending  their  summer 
holidays  together — can't  you  imagine  how 
tlicv  would  talk?" 


154  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"I  can  only  imagine  it  if  they  were  nice 
men,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  "and  even  so  but 
dimly." 

"Yes.  Of  course.  Well,  let  us  talk  to- 
gether this  morning  as  if  we  were  nice  men 
—about  anything  and  everything.  I  can't 
think"  I  finished,  plaintively,  "why  we 
shouldn't  talk  about  anything  and  every- 
thing." 

Dolly  looked  at  me  with  dancing  eyes. 

Mrs.  Barnes  sat  very  straight.  She  was 
engaged  in  twisting  the  honey-spoon  round 
and  round  so  as  to  catch  its  last  trickling 
neatly.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  this,  and  if 
there  was  a  rebuke  in  them  it  was  hidden 
from  me. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  she  said,  carefully 
winding  up  the  last  thread  of  honey,  "but  as 
I  am  not  a  nice  man  I  fear  I  cannot  join  in. 
Nor,  of  course,  can  Dolly,  for  the  same 
reason.  But  I  need  not  say,"  she  added, 
earnestly,  "that  there  is  not  the  slightest 
reason  why  you,  on  your  own  terrace, 
shouldn't,  if  you  wish,  imagine  yourself  to 
be  a  nice— 

"Oh,  no,"  I  broke  in,  giving  up.  "Oh,  no, 
no.  I  think  perhaps  you  are  right.  I  do 
think  perhaps  it  is  best  to  goon  with  Men  vale." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  155 

We  finished  breakfast  with  the  usual 
courtesies. 

I  didn't  try  to  be  natural  any  more. 

September  1st. 

Dolly  forgot  herself  this  morning. 

On  the  first  of  the  month  I  pay  the  bills. 
Antoine  reminded  me  last  month  that  this 
used  to  be  my  practice  before  the  war,  and  I 
remember  how  languidly  I  roused  myself 
from  my  meditations  on  the  grass  to  go 
indoors  and  add  up  figures.  But  to-day  I 
liked  it.  I  went  in  cheerfully. 

'This  is  my  day  for  doing  the  accounts," 
I  said  to  Mrs.  Barnes,  as  she  was  about  to 
form  the  procession  to  the  chairs.  'They 
take  me  most  of  the  morning,  so  I  expect 
we  won't  see  each  other  again  till  luncheon." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  sympatheti- 
cally, "how  very  tiresome  for  you.  Those 
terrible  settling  up  days.  How  well  I  know 
them,  and  how  I  used  to  dread  them." 

"Yes,"  said  Dolly: 

"  Reines  Gliick  geniesst  dock  nie 
Wer  zahlen  soil  und  weiss  nicht  wie. 

Poor  Kitty.     We  know  all  about  that,  don't 
we."     And  she  put  her  arm  round  her  sister. 


156  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Dolly  had  forgotten  herself. 

I  thought  it  best  not  to  linger,  but  to  go  in 
quickly  to  my  bills. 

Her  accent  was  perfect.  I  know  enough 
German  to  know  that. 

September  %nd. 

We've  been  a  little  strained  all  day  in 
our  relations  because  of  yesterday.  Dolly 
drooped  at  lunch,  and  for  the  first  time 
didn't  smile.  Mrs.  Barnes,  I  think,  had 
been  rebuking  her  with  more  than  ordinary 
thoroughness.  Evidently  Mrs.  Barnes  is  des- 
perately anxious  I  shouldn't  know  about 
Siegfried.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  way  of 
delicately  introducing  Germans  into  the  con- 
versation, and  conveying  to  her  that  I  have 
guessed  about  Dolly's  husband  and  don't  mind 
him  a  bit.  Why  should  I  mind  somebody 
else's  husband?  A  really  nice  woman  only 
minds  her  owrn.  But  I  know  of  no  two  sub- 
jects more  difficult  to  talk  about  tactfully  than 
Germans  and  husbands;  and  when  both  are 
united,  as  in  this  case,  my  courage  rather  fails. 

We  went  for  a  dreary  walk  this  afternoon. 
Mrs.  Barnes  was  watchful,  and  Dolly  was 
meek.  I  tried  to  be  sprightly,  but  one  can't 
be  sprightly  by  oneself. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  157 

September  3rd. 

In  the  night  there  was  a  thunderstorm,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  I  got  here  I  woke  up  to 
rain  and  mist.  The  mist  was  pouring  in  in 
waves  through  the  open  windows,  and  the 
room  wras  quite  cold.  When  I  looked  at  the 
thermometer  hanging  outside,  I  saw  it  had 
dropped  twenty  degrees. 

\Ve  have  become  so  much  used  to  fine 
weather  arrangements  that  the  sudden  change 
caused  an  upheaval.  I  heard  much  hurrying 
about  downstairs,  and  when  I  went  down  to 
breakfast  found  it  was  laid  in  the  hall.  It 
was  like  breakfasting  in  a  tomb,  after  the  rad- 
iance of  our  meals  out  of  doors.  The  front 
door  was  shut;  the  rain  pattered  on  the  win- 
dows; and  right  up  against  the  panes,  between 
us  and  the  world  like  a  great  gray  flannel 
curtain,  hung  the  mist.  It  might  have  been 
some  particularly  odious  December  morning  in 
England. 

"CV.s-/  Tcndonine"  said  Antoine,  bringing  in 
three  cane  chairs  and  putting  them  round  the 
tea-table  on  which  the  breakfast  was  laid. 

"C'cst  un  avertissement"  said  Mrs.  Antoine, 
bringing  in  the  coffee. 

Antoine  then  said  that  he  had  conceived  it 
possible  that  Madame  and  ces  dames  might 


158  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

like  a  small  wood  fire.  To  cheer.  To  en- 
liven. 

"Pray  not  on  our  account,"  instantly  said 
Mrs.  Barnes  to  me,  very  earnestly.  "Dolly 
and  I  do  not  feel  the  cold  at  all,  I  assure  you. 
Pray  do  not  have  one  on  our  account." 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  cozy—  '  I  began, 
who  am  like  a  cat  about  warmth. 

"I  would  far  rather  you  did  not  have  one," 
said  Mrs.  Barnes,  her  features  puckered. 
"Think  of  all  the  wood!" 

"But  it  would  only  be  a  few  logs— 

"What  is  there  nowadays  so  precious  as 
logs?  And  it  is  far,  far  too  early  to  begin  fires. 
Why,  only  last  week  it  was  still  August.  Still 
the  dog-days." 

"But  if  we're  cold— 

"We  should  indeed  be  poor  creatures,  Dolly 
and  I,  if  the  moment  it  left  off  being  warm  we 
were  cold.  Please  do  not  think  we  don't 
appreciate  your  kindness  in  wishing  to  give 
us  a  fire,  but  Dolly  and  I  would  feel  it  very 
much  if  our  being  here  were  to  make  you  begin 
fires  so  early." 

"But- 

"Keep  the  logs  for  later  on.  Let  me  beg 
you." 

So  we  didn't  have  a  fire;  and  there  we  sat. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  159 

Mrs.  Barnes  with  the  white  shawl  at  last  put 
to  its  proper  use,  and  all  of  us  trying  not  to 
shiver. 

After  breakfast,  which  was  taken  away 
bodily,  table  and  all,  snatched  from  our  midst 
by  the  Antoines,  so  that  we  were  left  sitting 
facing  each  other  round  empty  space  with  a 
curious  sensation  of  sudden  nakedness,  I  sup- 
posed that  Merivale  would  be  produced,  so  I 
got  up  and  pushed  a  comfortable  chair  con- 
veniently for  Dolly,  and  turned  on  the  light. 

To  my  surprise  I  found  Mrs.  Barnes  actually 
preferred  to  relinquish  the  reading  aloud  rather 
than  use  my  electric  light  in  the  daytime.  It 
would  be  an  unpardonable  extravagance,  she 
said.  Dolly  could  work  at  her  knitting. 
Neither  of  them  needed  their  eyes  for  knitting. 

I  was  greatly  touched.  From  the  first  she 
has  shown  a  touching,  and  at  the  same  time 
embarrassing,  concern  not  to  cause  me  avoid- 
able expense,  but  never  yet  such  concern  as 
this.  I  know  what  store  she  sets  by  the  read- 
ing. Why,  if  we  just  sat  there  in  the  gloom 
we  might  begin  to  say  things.  I  really  was 
was  very  much  touched. 

But  indeed  Mrs.  Barnes  is  touching.  It  is 
because  she  is  so  touching  in  her  desire  not  to 
give  trouble,  to  make  us  happy,  that  one  so 


1GO  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

continually  does  exactly  what  she  wishes.  I 
would  do  almost  anything  sooner  than  hurt 
Mrs.  Barnes.  Also  I  would  do  almost  any- 
thing to  calm  her.  And  as  for  her  adhesive- 
ness to  an  unselfish  determination,  it  is  such 
that  it  is  mere  useless  fatigue  to  try  to  separate 
her  from  it. 

I  have  learned  this  gradually. 

At  first,  most  of  my  time  at  meals  was  spent 
in  reassuring  her  that  things  hadn't  been  got 
specially  on  her  and  Dolly's  account,  and  as 
the  only  other  account  they  could  have  been 
got  on  was  mine,  my  assurances  had  the  effect 
of  making  me  seem  very  greedy.  I  thought 
I  lived  frugally  up  here,  but  Mrs.  Barnes  must 
have  lived  so  much  more  frugally  that  almost 
everything  is  suspected  by  her  to  be  a  luxury 
provided  by  my  hospitality. 

She  was,  for  instance,  so  deeply  persuaded 
that  the  apricots  were  got,  as  she  says,  spe- 
cially, that  at  last  to  calm  her  I  had  to  tell  Mrs. 
Antoine  to  buy  no  more.  And  we  all  liked 
apricots.  And  there  was  a  perfect  riot  of 
them  down  in  the  valley.  After  that  we  had 
red  currants  because  they,  Mrs.  Barnes  knew, 
came  out  of  the  garden;  but  we  didn't  eat  them 
because  we  didn't  like  them. 

Then  there  was  a  jug  of  lemonade  sent  in 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  161 

every  day  for  lunch  that  worried  her.  During 
this  period  her  talk  was  entirely  of  lemons  and 
sugar,  of  all  the  lemons  and  sugar  that  wouldn't 
be  being  used  if  she  and  Dolly  were  not  here; 
and  again,  in  order  to  calm  her,  and  rather 
than  that  she  should  be  made  unhappy,  I  told 
Mrs.  Antoine  to  send  in  only  water. 

Cakes  disappeared  from  tea  a  week  ago. 
Eggs  have  survived  at  breakfast,  and  so  has 
honey,  because  Mrs.  Barnes  can  hear  the 
chickens  and  has  seen  the  bees  and  knows  they 
are  not  things  got  specially.  She  will  eat 
potatoes  and  cabbages  and  anything  else  that 
the  garden  produces  with  serenity,  but  grows 
restive  over  meat;  and  a  leg  of  mutton  made 
her  miserable  yesterday,  for  nothing  would 
make  her  believe  that  if  I  had  been  here  alone 
it  wouldn't  have  been  a  cutlet. 

"Let  there  be  no  more  legs  of  mutton,"  I 
said  to  Mrs.  Antoine  afterward.  "Let  there 
instead  be  three  cutlets." 

I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Antoine  is  scandalized  at 
the  inhospitable  rigours  she  supposes  me  to 
be  applying  to  my  guests.  My  order  to 
Antoine  this  morning  not  to  light  the  fire  will 
have  increased  her  growing  suspicion  that  I 
am  developing  into  a  cheese-paring  Madame. 
She  must  have  expressed  her  fears  to  Antoine; 


162  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

for  the  other  day,  when  I  told  her  to  leave  the 
sugar  and  lemons  out  of  the  lemonade  and 
send  in  only  the  water,  she  looked  at  him,  and 
as  I  went  away  I  heard  her  saying  to  him  in 
a  low  voice — he  no  doubt  having  told  her  I 
usedn't  to  be  like  this,  and  she  being  unable 
to  think  of  any  other  explanation—  "  C'est  la 
guerre." 

About  eleven,  having  done  little  good  by 
my  presence  in  the  hall  whose  cheerlessness 
wrung  from  me  a  thoughtless  exclamation 
that  I  wished  I  smoked  a  pipe,  upon  which 
Dolly  instantly  said,  "Wouldn't  it  be  a 
comfort,"  and  Mrs.  Barnes  said,  "Dolly,"  I 
went  away  to  the  kitchen  pretending  I 
wanted  to  ask  what  there  was  for  dinner, 
but  really  so  as  to  be  for  a  few  moments  where 
there  was  a  fire. 

Mrs.  Antoine  watched  me  warming  myself 
with  respectful  disapproval. 

"Madame  devrait  faire  faire  un  pen  de  feu 
dans  la  halle"  she  said.  "Ces  dames  auronf 
bien  froid." 

"  Ces  dames  won't  let  me,"  I  tried  to  explain 
in  the  most  passionate  French  I  could  think 
of.  "  Ces  dames  implore  me  not  to  have  a 
fire.  Ces  dames  reject  a  fire.  Ces  dames 
defend  themselves  against  a  fire.  I  perish 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  163 

because  of  the  resolve  of  ces  dames  not  to  have 
a  fire." 

But  Mrs.  Antoine  plainly  didn't  believe 
me.  She  thought,  I  could  see,  that  I  was 
practising  a  repulsive  parsimony  on  defence- 
less guests.  It  was  the  sorrows  of  the  war, 
she  concluded,  that  had  changed  Madame's 
nature.  This  was  the  kindest,  the  only 
possible,  explanation. 

Evening. 

There  was  a  knock  at  my  door  just  then. 
I  thought  it  must  be  Mrs.  Antoine  come  to  ask 
me  some  domestic  question,  and  said  Entrez, 
and  it  was  Mrs.  Barnes. 

She  has  not  before  this  penetrated  into  my 
bedroom.  I  hope  I  didn't  look  too  much 
surprised.  I  think  there  could  hardly  have 
been  a  gap  of  more  than  a  second  between  my 
surprise  and  my  recovered  hospitality. 

"Oh — do  come  in,"  I  said.  "How  nice  of 
you." 

N    Thus    do    the    civilized    clothe    their    real 
sensations  in  splendid  robes  of  courtesy. 

"Dolly  and  I  haven't  driven  you  away 
from  the  hall,  I  hope?"  began  Mrs.  Barnes 
in  a  worried  voice. 

"  I    only   came   up   here   for   a   minute,"   I 


164  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

explained,  "and  was  corning  down  again 
directly." 

"Oh,  that  relieves  me.  I  was  afraid  per- 
haps- 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  so  often  be  afraid 
you're  driving  me  away,"  I  said,  pleasantly. 
"Do  I  look  driven?" 

But  Mrs.  Barnes  took  no  notice  of  my 
pleasantness.  She  had  something  on  her 
mind.  She  looked  like  somebody  who  is 
reluctant  and  yet  impelled. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "that  if  you 
have  a  moment  to  spare  it  might  be  a  good 
opportunity  for  a  little  talk.  I  would  like  to 
talk  with  you  a  little." 

And  she  stood  regarding  me,  her  eyes  full 
of  reluctant  but  unconquerable  conscientious- 
ness. 

"Do,"  I  said,  with  polite  enthusiasm. 
"Do." 

This  was  the  backwash,  I  thought,  of 
Dolly's  German  outbreak  the  other  day,  and 
Siegfried  was  going  at  last  to  be  explained 
to  inc. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  in  this  chair?"  I 
said,  pushing  a  comfortable  one  forward, 
and  then  sitting  down  myself  on  the  edge  of 
the  sofa. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  165 

"Thank  you.     What  I  wish  to  say  is- 

She  hesitated.  I  supposed  her  to  be  finding 
it  difficult  to  proceed  with  Siegfried,  and 
started  off  impulsively  to  her  rescue. 

"You  know,  I  don't  mind  a  bit  about— 
I  began. 

"What  I  wish  to  say  is,"  she  went  on  again, 
before  I  had  got  out  the  fatal  word,  "what 
I  wish  to  point  out  to  you — is  that  the  weather 
has  considerably  cooled." 

This  was  so  remote  from  Siegfried  that  I 
looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  I 
guessed  what  was  coming,  and  tried  to  put 
it  off. 

"Ah,"  I  said — for  I  dreaded  the  grateful 
things  she  would  be  sure  to  say  about  having 
been  here  so  long—  "you  do  want  a  fire  in  the 
hall  after  all,  then." 

"No,  no.  We  are  quite  warm  enough,  I 
assure  you.  A  fire  would  distress  us.  What 
I  wish  to  say  is—  Again  she  hesitated, 

then  went  on  more  firmly,  "Well,  I  wish  to 
say  that  the  weather  having  broken  and  the 
great  heat  having  come  to  an  end,  the  reasons 
\vhich  made  you  extend  your  kind,  your  de- 
lightful hospitality  to  us,  have  come  to  an  end 
also.  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  we  never, 
never  shall  be  able  to  express  to  you— 


166  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Oh,  but  you're  not  going  to  give  me 
notice?"  I  interrupted,  trying  to  be  sprightly 
and  to  clamber  over  her  rock-like  persistence 
in  gratitude  with  the  gaiety  of  a  bright, 
autumnal  creeper.  This  was  because  I  was 
nervous.  I  grow  terribly  sprightly  when  I 
am  nervous. 

But  indeed  I  shrink  from  Mrs.  Barnes's 
gratitude.  It  abases  me  to  the  dust.  It 
leaves  me  mourning  in  much  the  same  way 
that  Simon  Lee's  gratitude  left  Wordsworth 
mourning.  I  can't  bear  it.  What  a  world  it 
is,  I  want  to  cry  out — what  a  miserable, 
shameful,  battering,  crushing  world,  when 
so  dreadfully  little  makes  people  so  dread- 
fully glad! 

Then  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  the 
expression  giving  notice  might  not  be  taken 
by  Mrs.  Barnes,  she  being  solemn,  in  the  spirit 
in  which  it  was  offered  by  me,  I  being 
sprightly;  and,  desperately  afraid  of  having 
possibly  offended  her,  I  seized  on  the  first 
thing  I  could  think  of  as  most  likely  to  soothe 
her,  which  was  an  extension,  glowing  and 
almost  indefinite,  of  my  invitation.  "Be- 
cause, you  know,"  I  said,  swept  along  by 
this  wish  to  prevent  a  wound,  "I  won't  accept 
the  notice.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  167 

That  is,  of  course,"  I  added,  "if  you  and  Dolly 
don't  mind  the  quiet  up  here  and  the  mo- 
notony. Won't  you  stay  on  here  till  I  go  away 
myself?" 

Mrs.  Barnes  opened  her  mouth  to  speak, 
but  I  got  up  quickly  and  crossed  over  to  her 
and  kissed  her.  Instinct  made  me  go  and 
kiss  her,  so  as  to  gain  a  little  time,  so  as  to 
put  off  the  moment  of  having  to  hear  what- 
ever it  was  she  was  going  to  say;  for  whether 
she  accepted  the  invitation  or  refused  it,  I 
knew  there  would  be  an  equally  immense,  un- 
bearable number  of  grateful  speeches. 

But  when  I  went  over  and  kissed  her 
Mrs.  Barnes  put  her  arm  round  my  neck  and 
held  me  tight;  and  there  was  something  in 
this  sudden  movement  on  the  part  of  one  so 
chary  of  outward  signs  of  affection  that  made 
my  heart  give  a  little  leap  of  response,  and  I 
found  myself  murmuring  into  her  ear — amaz- 
ing that  I  should  be  murmuring  into  Mrs. 
Barnes's  ear— "Please  don't  go  away  and 
leave  me — please  don't — please  stay— 

And  as  she  didn't  say  anything  I  kissed  her 
again,  and  again  murmured,  "'Please — 

And  as  she  still  didn't  say  anything  I 
murmured,  "Won't  you?  Say  you  will— 

And  then  I  discovered  to  my  horror  that 


168  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

why  she  didn't  say  anything  was  because  she 
was  crying. 

I  have  been  slow  and  unimaginative  about 
Mrs.  Barnes.  Having  guessed  that  Dolly 
was  a  German  widow  I  might  so  easily  have 
guessed  the  rest:  the  poverty  arising  out  of 
such  a  situation,  the  vexations  and  humili- 
ations of  the  attitude  of  people  in  the  pensions 
she  has  dragged  about  in  during  and  since  the 
war — places  in  which  Dolly's  name  must 
needs  be  registered  and  her  nationality  known ; 
the  fatigue  and  loneliness  of  such  a  life,  with 
no  home  anywhere  at  all,  forced  to  wander  and 
wander,  her  little  set  at  Dulwich  probably 
repudiating  her  because  of  Dolly,  or  scolding 
her,  in  rare  letters,  for  the  folly  of  her  sacrifice; 
with  nothing  to  go  back  to  and  nothing  to 
look  forward  to,  and  the  memory  stabbing 
her  always  of  the  lost  glories  of  that  ordered 
life  at  home  in  her  well-found  house,  with  the 
church  bells  ringing  on  Sundays,  and  every- 
body polite,  and  a  respectful  crossing-sweeper 
at  the  end  of  the  road. 

All  her  life  Mrs.  Barnes  has  been  luminously 
respectable.  Her  respectability  has  been,  I 
gather  from  things  she  has  said,  her  one 
great  treasure.  To  stand  clear  and  plain 
before  her  friends,  without  a  corner  in  her 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  169 

actions  that  needed  defending  or  even  ex- 
plaining, was  what  the  word  happiness  meant 
to  her.  And  now  here  she  is,  wandering 
about  in  a  kind  of  hiding.  With  Dolly. 
With  the  beloved,  the  difficult,  the  unex- 
plainable  Dolly.  Unwelcomed,  unwanted, 
and  I  daresay  quite  often  asked  by  the  many 
pension  proprietors  who  are  angrily  anti- 
German  to  go  somewhere  else. 

I  have  been  thick-skinned  about  Mrs. 
Barnes.  I  am  ashamed.  And  whether  I 
have  guessed  right  or  wrong  she  shall  keep 
her  secrets.  I  shall  not  try  again,  however 
good  my  silly  intentions  may  seem  to  me, 
however  much  I  may  think  it  would  ease  our 
daily  intercourse,  to  blunder  in  among  things 
about  which  she  wishes  to  be  silent.  When 
she  cried  like  that  this  morning,  after  a 
moment  of  looking  at  her  bewildered  and 
aghast,  I  suddenly  understood.  I  knew  what 
I  have  just  been  writing  as  if  she  had  told  me. 
And  I  stroked  her  hand,  and  tried  to  pretend 
I  didn't  notice  anything,  because  it  was  so 
dreadful  to  see  how  she,  for  her  part,  was 
trying  so  very  hard  to  pretend  she  wasn't 
crying.  And  I  kept  on  saying — for  indeed  I 
didn't  know  what  to  say—  'Then  you'll  stay 
—how  glad  I  am — then  that's  settled " 


170  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

And  actually  I  heard  myself  expressing 
pleasure  at  the  certainty  of  my  now  hearing 
Merivale  to  a  finish! 

How  the  interview  ended  was  by  my  con- 
ceiving the  brilliant  idea  of  going  away  on 
the  pretext  of  giving  an  order,  and  leaving 
Mrs.  Barnes  alone  in  my  room  till  she  should 
have  recovered  sufficiently  to  appear  down- 
stairs. 

"I  must  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Antoine  some- 
thing," I  suddenly  said,  "something  I've 
forgotten."  And  I  hurried  a\vay. 

For  once  I  had  been  tactful.  Wonderful. 
I  couldn't  help  feeling  pleased  at  having  been 
able  to  think  of  this  solution  to  the  situation. 
Mrs.  Barnes  wouldn't  want  Dolly  to  see  she 
had  been  crying.  She  would  stay  up  quietly 
in  my  room  till  her  eyes  had  left  off  being  red, 
and  would  then  come  down  as  calm  and  as 
ready  to  set  a  good  example  as  ever. 

Continuing  to  be  tactful  I  avoided  going 
into  the  hall,  because  in  it  was  Dolly  all  by 
herself,  offering  me  my  very  first  opportunity 
for  the  talk  alone  with  her  that  I  have  so  long 
been  wanting;  but  of  course  I  wouldn't  do 
anything  now  that  might  make  Mrs.  Barnes 
uneasy;  I  hope  I  never  may  again. 

To  avoid  the  hall,  however,  meant  finding 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  171 

myself  in  the  servants'  quarters.  I  couldn't 
take  shelter  in  the  kitchen  and  once  more 
warm  myself,  because  it  was  their  dinner 
hour.  There  remained  the  back  door,  the 
last  refuge  of  a  hostess.  It  was  open;  and 
outside  was  the  yard,  the  rain,  and  Mou- 
Mou's  kennel  looming  through  the  mist. 

I  went  and  stood  in  the  door,  contemplating 
what  I  saw,  waiting  till  I  thought  Mrs.  Barnes 
would  have  had  time  to  be  able  to  come  out  of 
my  bedroom.  I  knew  she  would  stay  there 
till  her  eyes  were  ready  to  face  the  world  again, 
so  I  knew  I  must  have  patience.  Therefore 
I  stood  in  the  door  and  contemplated  what  I 
saw  from  it,  while  I  sought  patience  and 
ensued  it.  *  But  it  is  astonishing  how  cold 
and  penetrating  these  wet  mountain  mists 
are.  They  seem  to  get  right  through  one's 
body  into  one's  very  spirit,  and  make  it  cold, 
too  and  doubtful  of  the  future. 

September  4th. 

Dolly  looked  worried,  I  thought,  yesterday 
when  Mrs.  Barnes,  as  rocky  and  apparently 
arid  as  ever — but  I  knew  better — told  her  at 
tea-time  in  my  presence  that  I  had  invited 
them  to  stay  on  as  long  as  I  did. 

There  were  fortunately  few  expressions  of 


172  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

gratitude  this  time  decorating  Mrs.  Barnes's 
announcement.  I  think  she  still  wasn't  quite 
sure  enough  of  herself  to  be  anything  but 
brief.  Dolly  looked  quickly  at  me,  without 
her  usual  smile.  I  said  what  a  great  pleasure 
it  was  to  know  they  weren't  going  away. 
"You  do  like  staying,  don't  you,  Dolly?" 
Ij  asked,  breaking  off  suddenly  in  my  speech, 
for  her  serious  eyes  were  not  the  eyes  of  the 
particularly  pleased. 

She  said  she  did;  of  course  she  did;  and 
added  the  proper  politenesses.  But  she  went 
on  looking  thoughtful,  and  I  believe  she  wants 
to  tell  me,  or  have  me  told  by  Mrs.  Barnes, 
about  Siegfried.  I  think  she  things  I  ought 
to  know  what  sort  of  guest  I've  got  before 
deciding  whether  I  really  want  her  here  any 
longer  or  not. 

I  wish  I  could  somehow  convey  to  Dolly, 
without  upsetting  Mrs.  Barnes,  that  I  do 
know  and  don't  mind.  I  tried  to  smile  re- 
assuringly at  her,  but  the  more  I  smiled  the 
more  serious  she  grew. 

As  for  Mrs.  Barnes,  there  is  now  between 
her  and  me  the  shyness,  the  affection,  of  a 
secret  understanding.  She  may  look  as  arid 
and  stiff  as  she  likes,  but  we  have  kissed  each 
other  with  real  affection  and  I  have  felt  her 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  173 

arm  tighten  round  my  neck.  How  much 
more  enlightening,  how  much  more  efficacious 
than  any  words,  than  any  explanations,  is 
that  very  simple  thing,  a  kiss.  I  believe  if 
we  all  talked  less  and  kissed  more  we  should 
arrive  far  quicker  at  comprehension.  I  give 
this  opinion  with  diffidence.  It  is  rather 
a  conjecture  than  an  opinion.  I  have  not 
found  it  shared  in  literature — in  conversation 
I  would  omit  it — except  once,  and  then  by  a 
German.  He  wrote  a  poem  whose  first  line 
was: 

0  schwore  nicht  und  kiisse  nur  ! 

And  I  thought  it  sensible  advice. 

September  5th. 

The  weather  after  all  hasn't  broken.  We 
have  had  the  thunderstorm  and  the  one  bad 
day,  and  then  it  cleared  up.  It  didn't  clear 
up  back  to  heat  again — this  year  there  will 
be  no  more  heat — but  to  a  kind  of  cool,  pure 
gold.  All  day  yesterday  it  was  clearing  up, 
and  toward  evening  there  came  a  great 
wind  and  swept  the  sky  clear  during  the 
night  of  everything  but  stars;  and  when  I 
woke  this  morning  there  was  the  familiar 
golden  patch  on  the  wall  again,  and  I  knew 
the  day  was  to  be  beautiful. 


174  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

And  so  it  has  been,  with  the  snow  come 
much  lower  down  the  mountains,  and  the 
still  air  very  fresh.  Things  sparkle;  and 
one  feels  like  some  bright  bubble  of  light 
oneself.  Actually  even  Mrs.  Barnes  has  al- 
most been  like  that — has  been,  for  her, 
astonishingly,  awe-inspiringly  gay. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  standing  on  the  terrace 
after  breakfast,  drawing  in  deep  draughts  of 
air,  "now  I  understand  the  expression  so 
frequently  used  in  descriptions  of  scenery. 
This  air  indeed  is  like  champagne." 

"It  does  make  one  feel  very  healthy,"  I 
said. 

There  are  several  things  I  wanted  to  say 
instead  of  this,  things  suggested  by  her 
remark,  but  I  refrained.  I  mean  to  be 
careful  now  to  let  my  communications  with 
Mrs.  Barnes  be  Yea,  yea,  and  Nay,  nay— 
that  is,  straightforward  and  brief,  with  noth- 
ing whatever  in  them  that  might  directly 
or  indirectly  lead  to  the  encouragement  of 
Dolly.  Dolly  has  been  trying  to  catch  me 
alone.  She  has  tried  twice  since  Mrs.  Barnes 
yesterday  at  tea  told  her  I  had  asked  them  to 
stay  on,  but  I  have  avoided  her. 

"Healthy?"  repeated  Mrs.  Barnes.  "It 
makes  one  feel  more  than  healthy.  It  goes 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  175 

to  one's  head.     I  can  imagine  it  turning  me 
quite  dizzy — quite  turning  my  head." 

And  then  she  actually  asked  me  a  riddle- 
Mrs.  Barnes  asked  a  riddle,  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  asked  me,  a  person  long  since 
callous  to  riddles  and  at  no  time  since  six 
years  old  particularly  appreciative  of  them. 

Of  course  I  answered  wrong.  Discon- 
certed, I  impetuously  hazarded  Brandy  as 
the  answer,  when  it  should  have  been  Whisky; 
hut  really  I  think  it  was  wonderful  to  have  got 
even  so  near  the  right  answer  as  Brandy.  I 
won't  record  the  riddle.  It  was  old  in  Mrs. 
Barnes's  youth,  for  she  told  me  she  had  it 
from  her  father,  who,  she  said,  could  enjoy  a 
joke  as  heartily  as  she  can  herself. 

But  what  was  so  surprising  was  that  the 
effect  of  the  crisp,  sunlit  air  on  Mrs.  Barnes 
should  be  to  engender  riddles.  It  didn't  do 
this  to  my  pre-war  guests.  They  grew  young, 
but  not  younger  than  twenty.  Mrs.  Barnes 
to-day  descended  to  the  age  of  bibs.  I  never 
could  have  believed  it  of  her.  I  never  could 
have  believed  she  would  come  so  near  what 
I  can  only  call  an  awful  friskiness.  And  it 
wasn't  just  this  morning,  in  the  first  intoxi- 
cation of  the  splendid  new  air;  it  has  gone  on 
like  it  all  day.  On  the  mountain  slopes, 


176  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

slippery  now  and  difficult  to  walk  on  because 
of  the  heavy  rain  of  the  thunderstorm,  might 
have  been  seen  this  afternoon  three  figures, 
two  black  ones  and  a  white  one,  proceeding 
for  a  space  in  a  rather  wobbly  single  file,  then 
pausing  in  an  animated  group,  then  once  more 
proceeding.  When  they  paused  it  was  because 
Mrs.  Barnes  had  thought  of  another  riddle. 

Dolly  was  very  quick  at  the  answers 
—so  quick  that  I  suspected  her  of  having 
been  brought  up  on  these  very  ones,  as  she 
no  doubt  was,  but  I  cut  a  lamentable  figure. 
I  tried  to  make  up  for  my  natural  incapacity 
by  great  goodwill.  Mrs.  Barnes's  spirits  were 
too  rare  and  precious,  I  felt,  not  to  be  wel- 
comed; and  having  failed  in  answers  I  desper- 
ately ransacked  my  memory  in  search  of  ques- 
tions, so  that  I  could  ask  riddles,  too. 

But  by  a  strange  perversion  of  recollection 
I  could  remember  several  answers  and  not 
their  questions.  In  my  brain,  on  inquiry, 
were  fixed  quite  firmly  things  like  this— 
obviously  answers  to  what  once  had  been 
riddles: 

Because  his  tail  comes  out  of  his  head. 

So  did  the  other  donkey. 

He  took  a  fly  and  went  home. 

Orleans. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  177 

Having  nothing  else  to  offer  Mrs.  Barnes  I 
offered  her  these,  and  suggested  she  should 
supply  the  questions. 

She  thought  this  way  of  dealing  with  riddles 
subversive  and  difficult.  Dolly  began  to 
laugh.  Mrs.  Barnes,  filled  with  the  invigo- 
rating air,  actually  laughed,  too.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  have  heard  her  laugh.  I  listened 
with  awe.  Evidently  she  laughs  very  rarely, 
for  Dolly  looked  so  extraordinarily  pleased; 
evidently  her  doing  it  made  to-day  memor- 
able, for  Dolly's  face,  turned  to  her  sister  in 
a  delighted  surprise,  had  the  expression  on  it 
that  a  mother's  has  when  her  offspring 
suddenly  behaves  in  a  way  unhoped  for  and 
gratifying. 

So  there  we  stood,  gesticulating  gaily  on 
the  slippery  slope. 

This  is  a  strange  place.  Its  effects  are 
incalculable.  I  suppose  it  is  because  it  is 
five  thousand  feet  up,  and  has  so  great  a 
proportion  of  sunshine. 

September  6th. 

There  were  letters  this  morning  from  Eng- 
land that  wiped  out  all  the  gaiety  of  yester- 
day; letters  that  reminded  me.  It  was  as  if 
the  cold  mist  had  come  back  again,  and  blotted 


178  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

out  the  light  after  I  had  hoped  it  had  gone  for 
good.  It  was  as  if  a  weight  had  dropped  down 
again  on  my  heart,  suffocating  it,  making  it 
difficult  to  breathe,  after  I  had  hoped  it  was 
lifted  off  for  ever.  I  feel  sick.  Sick  with  the 
return  of  the  familiar  pain,  sick  with  fear  that 
I  am  going  to  fall  back  hopelessly  into  it. 
I  wonder  if  I  am.  Oh,  I  had  such  hope  that 
I  was  better!  Shall  I  ever  get  quite  well 
again?  Won't  it  at  best  after  every  effort, 
every  perseverance  in  struggle,  be  just  a 
more  or  less  skilful  mending,  a  more  or  less 
successful  putting  together  of  broken  bits? 
I  thought  I  had  been  growing  whole.  I 
thought  I  wouldn't  any  longer  wince.  And 
now  these  letters. 

Ridiculous,  hateful  and  ridiculous,  to  be  so 
little  master  of  one's  own  body  that  one  has  to 
look  on  helplessly  at  one's  hands  shaking. 

I  want  to  forget.  I  don't  want  to  be 
reminded.  It  is  my  one  chance  of  safety,  my 
one  hope  of  escape.  To  forget — forget  till 
I  have  got  my  soul  safe  back  again,  really 
my  own  again,  no  longer  a  half -destroyed 
thing.  I  call  it  my  soul.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  I  am  very  miserable. 

It  is  details  that  I  find  so  difficult  to  bear. 
As  long  as  in  my  mind  everything  is  one  great, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  179 

unhappy  blur,  there  is  a  chance  of  quietness, 
of  gradual  creeping  back  to  peace.  But 
details  remind  me  too  acutely,  flash  back  old 
anguish  too  sharply  focussed.  I  oughtn't  to 
have  opened  the  letters  till  I  was  by  myself. 
But  it  pleased  me  so  much  to  get  them.  I 
love  getting  letters.  They  were  in  the  hand- 
writing of  friends.  How  could  I  guess,  when 
I  saw  them  on  the  breakfast-table,  that  they 
would  innocently  be  so  full  of  hurt?  And 
when  I  had  read  them,  and  I  picked  up  my 
cup  and  tried  to  look  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened and  I  were  drinking  coffee  like  any- 
body else,  my  silly  hand  shook  so  much 
that  Dolly  noticed  it. 

Our  eyes  met. 

I  couldn't  get  that  wretched  cup  back  on 
to  its  saucer  again  without  spilling  the  coffee. 
If  that  is  how  I  still  behave,  what  has  been 
the  good  of  being  here?  What  has  the  time 
been  but  wasted?  What  has  the  cure  been 
but  a  failure? 

I  have  come  up  to  my  room.  I  can't  stay 
downstairs.  It  would  be  unbearable  this 
morning  to  sit  and  be  read  to.  But  I  must 
try  to  think  of  an  excuse,  quickly.  Mrs. 
Barnes  may  be  up  any  minute  to  ask — oh, 
I  am  hunted! 


180  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

It  is  a  comfort  to  write  this.  To  write  does 
make  one  in  some  strange  way  less  lonely. 
Yet — having  to  go  and  look  at  oneself  in  the 
glass  for  companionship) — isn't  that  to  have 
reached  the  very  bottom  level  of  loneliness? 

Evening. 

The  direct  result  of  those  letters  has  been 
to  bring  Dolly  and  me  at  last  together. 

She  came  down  to  the  kitchen-garden  after 
me,  where  I  went  this  morning  when  I  had 
succeeded  in  straightening  myself  out  a  little. 
On  the  way  I  told  Mrs.  Barnes,  with  as  tran- 
quil a  face  as  I  could  manage,  that  I  had 
arrangements  to  discuss  with  Antoine,  and  so, 
I  was  afraid,  would  for  once  miss  the  reading. 

Antoine  I  knew  was  working  in  the  kitchen- 
garden,  a  plot  of  ground  hidden  from  the 
house  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  descent,  and  I 
wrent  to  him  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
help.  I  said  I  would  do  anything — dig,  weed, 
collect  slugs,  anything  at  all,  but  he  must  let 
me  work.  Work  with  my  hands  out  of  doors 
was  the  only  thing  I  felt  I  could  bear  to-day. 
It  wasn't  the  first  time,  I  reflected,  that  peace 
has  been  found  among  cabbages. 

Antoine  demurred,  of  course,  but  did  at 
last  consent  to  let  me  pick  red  currants. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  181 

That  was  an  easy  task,  and  useful  as  well, 
for  it  would  save  Lisette  the  assistant's  time, 
who  would  otherwise  presently  have  to  pick 
them.  So  I  chose  the  bushes  nearest  to  where 
he  was  digging,  because  I  wanted  to  be  near 
someone  who  neither  talked  nor  noticed, 
someone  alive,  someone  kind  and  good  who 
wouldn't  look  at  me,  and  I  began  to  pick 
these  strange,  belated  fruits,  finished  and 
forgotten  two  months  ago  in  the  valley. 

Then  I  saw  Dolly  coining  down  the  steps 
cut  in  the  turf.  She  was  holding  up  her  long 
black  skirt.  She  had  nothing  on  her  head, 
and  the  sun  shone  in  her  eyes  and  made  her 
screw  them  up  as  she  stood  still  for  a  moment 
on  the  bottom  step  searching  for  me.  I 
saw  all  this,  though  I  was  stooping  over  the 
bushes. 

Then  she  came  and  stood  beside  me. 

:' You  oughtn't  to  be  here,"  I  said,  going  on 
picking  and  not  looking  at  her. 

"I  know,"  said  Dolly. 
'Then  hadn't  you  better  go  back?" 
'Yes.     But  I'm  not  going  to." 

I  picked  in  silence. 

'You've  been  crying,"  was  what  she  said 
next. 

"No,"  I  said. 


182  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Perhaps  not  with  your  eyes,  but  you 
have  with  your  heart." 

At  this  I  felt  very  much  like  Mrs.  Barnes; 
very  much  like  what  Mrs.  Barnes  must  have 
felt  when  I  tried  to  get  her  to  be  frank. 

''Do  you  know  what  your  sister  said  to  me 
the  other  day?"  I  asked,  busily  picking. 
"She  said  she  has  a  great  opinion  of  discretion." 

"Yes,"  said  Dolly.     "But  I  haven't." 

"And  I  haven't,  either,"  I  was  forced  to 
admit. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Dolly. 

I  straightened  myself,  and  we  looked  at 
each  other.  Her  eyes  have  a  kind  of  sweet 
radiance.  Siegfried  must  have  been  pleased 
when  he  saw  her  coming  down  the  sheet  into 
his  arms. 

''You  mustn't  tell  me  anything  you  don't 
quite  want  to,"  said  Dolly,  her  sweet  eyes 
smiling,  "but  I  couldn't  see  you  looking  so 
unhappy  and  not  come  and — well,  stroke 
you." 

"There  isn't  anything  to  tell,"  I  said, 
comforted  by  the  mere  idea  of  being  stroked. 

'Yes,  there  is." 

"Not  really.  It's  only  that  once — oh,  well, 
what's  the  good?  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
it — I  want  to  forget." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  183 

Dolly  nodded.     "Yes,"  she  said.     "Yes." 

"You  see  I  came  here  to  get  cured  by 
forgetting,  and  I  thought  I  was  cured.  And 
this  morning  I  found  I  wasn't,  and  it  has— 
and  it  has  disappointed  me." 

'You  musn't  cry,  you  know,"  said  Dolly, 
gently.  "Not  in  the  middle  of  picking  red 
currants.  There's  the  man- 
She  glanced  at  Antoine,  digging. 

I  snuffled  away  my  tears  without  the 
betrayal  of  a  pocket  handkerchief,  and  man- 
aged to  smile  at  her. 

"What  idiots  we  go  on  being,"  I  said, 
ruefully. 

"Oh— idiots!" 

Dolly  made  a  gesture  as  of  including  the 
whole  world. 

"Does  one  ever  grow  up?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know.     I  haven't." 

"But  do  you  think  one  ever  learns  to  bear 
pain  without  wanting  to  run  crying  bitterly 
to  one's  mother?" 

"I  think  it's  difficult.  It  seems  to  take 
more  time",  she  added,  smiling,  "than  I've 
yet  had,  and  I'm  forty.  You  know  I'm 
forty?" 

'Yes.  That  is,  I've  been  told  so,  but  it 
hasn't  been  proved." 


184  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Oh,  I  never  could  prove  anything/'  said 
Dolly. 

Then  she  put  on  an  air  of  determination 
that  would  have  alarmed  Mrs.  Barnes,  and 
said,  "There  are  several  other  things  that  I 
am  that  you  don't  know,  and  as  I'm  here 
alone  with  you  at  last  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
what  they  are.  In  fact,  I'm  not  going  away 
from  these  currant  bushes  till  I  have  told 

you." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "hadn't  you  better  help  me 
with  the  currants  while  you  tell?"  And  I 
lifted  the  basket  across  and  put  it  on  the 
ground  between  us. 

Already  I  felt  better.  Comforted,  cheered 
by  Dolly's  mere  presence  and  the  sweet 
understanding  that  seems  to  shine  out  from  her. 

She  turned  up  her  sleeve  and  plunged 
her  arms  into  the  currant  bushes.  Luckily 
currants  don't  have  thorns,  for  if  it  had  been 
a  gooseberry  bush  she  would  have  plunged 
her  bare  arms  in  just  the  same. 

''You  have  asked  us  to  stay  on,"  she  began, 
"and  it  isn't  fair  that  you  shouldn't  know 
exactly  what  you  are  in  for." 

"If  you're  going  to  tell  me  how  your  name 
is  spelt,"  I  said,  "I've  guessed  that  already. 
It  is  Juchs." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  185 

"Oh,  you're  clever!"  exclaimed  Dolly,  un- 
expectedly. 

"Well,  if  that's  clever,"  I  said,  modestly, 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  would  say  to  some  of 
the  things  I  think  of." 

Dolly  laughed.  Then  she  looked  serious 
again,  and  tugged  at  the  currants  in  a  way 
that  wasn't  very  good  for  the  bush. 

;'Yes.  His  name  was  Juchs,"  she  said. 
"Kitty  always  did  pronounce  it  Jewks.  It 
wasn't  the  war.  It  wasn't  camouflage.  She 
thought  it  was  the  way.  So  did  the  other 
relations  in  England.  That  is  when  they 
pronounced  it  at  all,  which  I  should  think 
wasn't  ever." 

"You  mean  they  called  him  Siegfried,"  I  said. 

Dolly  stopped  short  in  her  picking  to  look 
at  me  in  surprise.  "Siegfried?"  she  repeated, 
her  arrested  hands  full  of  currants. 

'That's  another  of  the  things  I've  guessed," 
I  said,  proudly.  "By  sheer  intelligently  put- 
ting two  and  two  together." 

"He  wasn't  Siegfried,"  said  Dolly. 

"Not  Siegfried?" 

It  was  my  turn  to  stop  picking  and  look 
surprised. 

"And  in  your  sleep ?  And  so  affection- 
ately— —  ?"  I  said. 


18C  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Siegfried  wasn't  Juchs,  he  was  Bretter- 
stangel,"  said  Dolly.  "Did  I  say  his  name 
that  day  in  my  sleep?  Dear  Siegfried." 
And  her  eyes,  even  while  they  rested  on  mine, 
became  softly  reminiscent. 

"But  Dolly — if  Siegfried  wasn't  your  hus- 
band, ought  you  to  have — well,  do  you  think 
it  was  wise  to  be  dreaming  of  him?" 

"But  he  was  my  husband." 

I  stared. 

"But  you  said  your  husband  was  Juchs," 
I  said. 

"So  he  was,"  said  Dolly. 

"He  was?  Then  why — I'm  fearfully  slow, 
I  know,  but  do  tell  me — if  Juchs  was  your 
husband  why  wasn't  he  called  Siegfried?" 

"Because  Siegfried's  name  was  Bretter- 
stangel.  I  began  with  Siegfried." 

There  was  a  silence.  We  stood  looking  at 
each  other,  our  hands  full  of  currants. 

Then  I  said,  "Oh."  And  after  a  moment  I 
said,  "I  see."  And  after  another  moment  I 
said,  "You  began  with  Siegfried." 

I  was  greatly  taken  aback.  The  guesses 
which  had  been  arranged  so  neatly  in  my 
mind  were  swept  into  confusion. 

"What  you've  got  to  realize,"  said  Dolly, 
evidently  with  an  effort,  "is  that  I  kept  on 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  187 

marrying  Germans.  I  ought  to  have  left  off 
at  Siegfried.  I  wish  now  I  had.  But  one 
gets  into  a  habit— 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  my  mouth  I  think 
rather  open,  "you  kept  on?" 

:<Yes,"  said  Dolly,  holding  herself  very 
straight  and  defiantly,  "I  did  keep  on,  and 
that's  what  I  want  you  to  be  quite  clear 
about  before  we  settle  down  to  stay  here 
indefinitely.  Kitty  can't  stay  if  I  won't. 
I  do  put  my  foot  down  sometimes,  and  I 
would  about  this.  Poor  darling — she  feels 
desperately  what  I've  done,  and  I  try  to  help 
her  to  keep  it  quiet  with  ordinary  people  as 
much  as  I  can — oh,  I'm  always  letting  little 
bits  out!  But  I  can't,  I  won't,  not  tell  a 
friend  who  so  wonderfully  invites  us— 

"  You're  not  going  to  begin  being  grateful?" 
I  interrupted,  quickly. 

''You've  no  idea,"  Dolly  answered,  irrele- 
vantly, her  eyes  wide  with  wonder  at  her  past 
self,  "how  difficult  it  is  not  to  marry  Germans 
once  you've  begun." 

"But — how  many?"  I  got  out. 

''Oh,  only  two.  It  wasn't  their  number  so 
much.  It  was  their  quality." 

"What— Junkers?" 

"Junkers?     Would  you  mind  more  if  they 


188  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

had  been?  Do  you  mind  very  much  any- 
how?" 

"I  don't  mind  anything.  I  don't  mind 
your  being  technically  German  a  scrap.  All 
I  think  is  that  it  was  a  little — well,  perhaps 
a  little  excessive  to  marry  another  German 
when  you  had  done  it  once  already.  But 
then  I'm  always  rather  on  the  side  of  frugality. 
I  do  definitely  prefer  the  few  instead  of  the 
many  and  the  little  instead  of  the  much." 

"In  husbands  as  well?" 

"Well,  yes— I  think  so." 

Dolly  sighed. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  like  that,"  she  said. 
"It  would  have  saved  poor  Kitty  so  much." 

She  dropped  the  currants  she  held  in  her 
hands  slowly  bunch  by  bunch  into  the  basket. 

"But  I  don't  see,"  I  said,  "what  difference 
it  could  make  to  Kitty.  I  mean,  once  you 
had  started  having  German  husbands  at  all, 
what  did  it  matter  one  more  or  less?  And 
wasn't  the  second  one  d —  I  mean,  hadn't  he 
left  off  being  alive  when  the  war  began?  So 
I  don't  see  what  difference  it  could  make  to 
Kitty." 

"But  that's  just  what  you've  got  to  realize," 
said  Dolly,  letting  the  last  bunch  of  currants 
drop  out  of  her  hand  into  the  basket. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  189 

She  looked  at  me,  and  I  became  aware 
that  she  was  slowly  turning  red.  A  very 
delicate  flush  was  slowly  spreading  over  her 
face,  so  delicate  that  for  a  moment  I  didn't 
see  what  it  was  that  was  making  her  look  more 
and  more  guilty,  more  and  more  like  a  child 
who  has  got  to  confess — but  an  honourable, 
good  child,  determined  that  it  will  confess. 

''You  know,"  she  said,  "that  I've  lived  in 
Germany  for  years  and  years." 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "I've  guessed  that." 

"And  it's  different  from  England." 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "So  I  understand." 

'The  way  they  see  things.     Their  laws." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

Dolly  was  finding  it  difficult  to  say  what 
she  had  to  say.  I  thought  it  might  help  her 
if  I  didn't  look  at  her,  so  I  once  more  began 
to  pick  currants.  She  mechanically  followed 
my  example. 

"Kitty,"  she  said,  as  we  both  stooped  busily 
over  the  same  bush,  "thinks  what  I  did  too 
dreadful.  So  did  all  our  English  relations. 
It's  because  you  may  think  so,  too,  that  I've 
got  to  tell  you.  Then  you  can  decide  whether 
you  really  want  me  here  or  not." 

"Dear  Dolly,"  I  murmured,  "don't  please 
make  my  blood  run  cold— 


190  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Ah,  but  it's  forbidden  in  the  Prayer 
Book." 

44 What  is?" 

"What  I  did." 

"What  did  you  do,  Dolly?"  I  asked,  now 
thoroughly  uneasy ;  had  her  recklessness  gone 
so  far  as  to  lead  her  to  tamper  with  the  Com- 
mandments? 

Dolly  tore  off  currants  and  leaves  in  hand- 
fuls  and  flung  them  together  into  the  basket. 
"I  married  my  uncle,"  she  said. 

"What?"  I  said,  really  astonished. 

"Karl — that  was  my  second  husband 
—was  Siegfried's — that  was  my  first  hus- 
band's— uncle.  He  was  Siegfried's  mother's 
brother — my  first  mother-in-law's  brother. 
My  second  mother-in-law  was  my  first 
husband's  grandmother.  In  Germany  you 
can.  In  Germany  you  do.  But  it's  forbidden 
in  the  English  Prayer  Book.  It's  put  in  the 
Table  of  Kindred  and  Affinity  that  you 
mustn't.  It's  number  nine  of  the  right-hand 
column — Husband's  Mother's  Brother.  And 
Kitty — well,  you  can  guess  what  Kitty  has 
felt  about  it.  If  it  had  been  my  own  uncle, 
my  own  mother's  pbrother,  she  couldn't  have 
been  more  horrified  and  heartbroken.  I 
didn't  realize.  I  didn't  think  of  the  effect  it 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  191 

might  have  on  them  at  home.  I  just  did  it. 
They  didn't  know  till  I  had  done  it.  I 
always  think  it  saves  bother  to  marry  first 
and  tell  afterward.  I  had  been  so  many 
years  in  Germany.  It  seemed  quite  natural. 
I  simply  stayed  on  in  the  family.  It  was  really 
habit." 

She  threw  some  currants  into  the  basket, 
then  faced  me.  'There,"  she  said,  looking 
me  straight  in  the  eyes,  "I've  told  you,  and 
if  you  think  me  impossible  I'll  go." 

"But-        'I  began. 

Her  face  was  definitely  flushed  now,  and  her 
eyes  very  bright. 

"Oh,  I'd  be  sorry,  sorry,"  she  said,  impetu- 
ously, "if  this  ended  us!" 

it  1  T      •}  ?? 

Isr 

''You  and  me.  But  I  couldn't  stay  here 
and  not  tell  you,  could  I?  Just  because  you 
may  hate  it  so  I  had  to  tell  you.  You've 
got  a  dean  in  your  family.  The  Prayer 
Book  is  in  your  blood.  And  if  you  do  hate 
it  I  shall  understand  perfectly,  and  I'll  go 
away  and  take  Kitty  and  you  need  never 
see  or  hear  of  me  again,  so  you  mustn't  mind 
saying— 

"Oh,  do  wait  a  minute!"  I  cried.  "I  don't 
hate  it.  I  don't  mind.  I'd  only  hate  it  and 


192  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

mind  if  it  was  I  who  had  to  marry  a  German 
uncle.  I  can't  imagine  why  anybody  should 
ever  want  to  marry  uncles  anyhow,  but  if 
they  do,  and  they're  not  blood-uncles,  and 
it's  the  custom  of  the  country,  why  not? 
You'll  stay  here,  Dolly.  I  won't  let  you  go. 
I  don't  care  if  you've  married  fifty  German 
uncles.  I've  loved  you  from  the  moment 
I  saw  you  on  the  top  of  the  wall  in  your 
funny  petticoat.  Why,  you  don't  suppose," 
I  finished,  suddenly  magnificently  British, 
"that  I'm  going  to  let  any  mere  German 
come  between  you  and  me?" 

Whereupon  we  kissed  each  other — not 
once,  but  several  times;  fell,  indeed,  upon 
each  other's  necks.  And  Antoine,  coming  to 
fetch  the  red  currants  for  Lisette  who  had 
been  making  signs  to  him  from  the  steps  for 
some  time  past,  stood  waiting  quietly  till  we 
should  have  done. 

When  he  thought  we  had  done  he  stepped 
forward  and  said,  "Pardon,  mesdames" — and 
stooping  down  deftly  extracted  the  basket 
from  between  us. 

As  he  did  so  his  eye  rested  an  instant  on  the 
stripped  and  broken  branches  of  the  currant 
bush. 

He  wasn't  surprised. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  193 

September  1th. 

I  couldn't  finish  about  yesterday  last  night. 
When  I  had  got  as  far  as  Antoine  and  the 
basket  I  looked  at  the  little  clock  on  my 
writing-table  and  saw  to  my  horror  that  it 
was  nearly  twelve.  So  I  fled  into  bed;  for 
what  would  Mrs.  Barnes  have  said  if  she 
had  seen  me  burning  the  electric  light  and 
doing  what  she  calls  trying  my  eyes  at  such 
an  hour?  It  doesn't  matter  that  they  are 
my  eyes  and  my  light:  Mrs.  Barnes  has 
become,  by  virtue  of  her  troubles,  the  secret 
standard  of  my  behaviour.  She  is  like  the 
eye  of  God  to  me  now — in  every  place.  And 
my  desire  to  please  her  and  make  her  happy 
has  increased  a  hundredfold  since  Dolly  and 
I  have  at  last,  in  spite  of  her  precautions, 
become  real  friends. 

We  decided  before  we  left  the  kitchen- 
garden  yesterday  that  this  was  the  important 
thing:  to  keep  Mrs.  Barnes  from  any  hurt 
that  we  can  avoid.  She  has  had  so  many. 
She  will  have  so  many  more.  I  understand 
now  Dolly's  deep  sense  of  all  her  poor  Kitty 
has  given  up  and  endured  for  her  sake,  and 
I  understand  the  shackles  these  sacrifices 
have  put  on  Dolly.  It  is  a  terrible  burden  to 
be  very  much  loved.  If  Dolly  were  of  a  less 


194  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

naturally  serene  temperament  she  would  go 
under  beneath  the  weight,  she  would  be,  after 
five  years  of  it,  a  colourless,  meek  thing. 

We  agreed  that  Mrs.  Barnes  mustn't  know 
that  I  know  about  Dolly's  marriages.  Dolly 
said  roundly  that  it  would  kill  her.  Mrs. 
Barnes  regards  her  misguided  sister  as  having 
committed  a  crime.  It  is  forbidden  in  the 
Prayer  Book.  She  brushes  aside  the  possible 
Prayer  Books  of  other  countries.  Therefore 
the  word  German  shall  never  I  hope  again 
escape  me  while  she  is  here,  nor  will  I  talk 
of  husbands,  and  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well 
to  avoid  mentioning  uncles.  Dear  me,  how 
very  watchful  I  shall  have  to  be.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  the  Dean  has  become 
unmentionable. 

I  am  writing  this  before  breakfast.  I 
haven't  seen  Dolly  alone  again  since  the 
kitchen-garden.  I  don't  know  how  she  con- 
trived to  appease  Mrs.  Barnes  and  explain 
her  long  absence,  but  that  she  did  contrive 
it  was  evident  from  the  harmonious  pic- 
ture I  beheld  when,  half  an  hour  later,  I,  too, 
went  back  to  the  house.  They  were  sitting 
together  in  the  sun  just  outside  the  front 
door  knitting.  Mrs.  Barnes's  face  was  quite 
contented.  Dolly  looked  specially  radiant. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  195 

I  believe  she  is  made  up  entirely  of  love  and 
laughter — dangerous,  endearing  ingredients! 
We  just  looked  at  each  other  as  I  came  out  of 
the  house.  It  is  the  most  comforting,  the 
warmest  thing,  this  unexpected  finding  of  a 
completely  understanding  friend. 

September  10th. 

Once  you  have  achieved  complete  under- 
standing with  anybody  it  isn't  necessary,  I 
know,  to  talk  much.  I  have  been  told  this 
by  the  wise.  They  have  said  mere  knowledge 
that  the  understanding  is  there  is  enough. 
They  have  said  that  perfect  understanding 
needs  no  expression,  that  the  perfect  inter- 
course is  without  words.  That  may  be;  but 
I  want  to  talk.  Not  excessively,  but  some- 
times. Speech  does  add  grace  and  satisfac- 
tion to  friendship.  It  may  not  be  necessary, 
but  it  is  very  agreeable. 

As  far  as  I  can  see  I  am  never,  except  by 
the  rarest  chance,  going  to  get  an  opportunity 
of  talking  to  Dolly  alone.  And  there  are  so 
many  things  I  want  to  ask  her.  Were  her 
experiences  all  pleasant?  Or  is  it  her  gay, 
indomitable  spirit  that  has  left  her,  after 
them,  so  entirely  unmarked?  Anyhow,  the 
last  five  years  can't  possibly  have  been 


196  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

pleasant,  and  yet  they've  not  left  the  shadow 
of  a  stain  on  her  serenity.  I  feel  that  she 
would  think  very  sanely  about  anything  her 
bright  mind  touched.  There  is  something 
disinfecting  about  Dolly.  I  believe  she  would 
disinfect  me  of  the  last  dregs  of  morbidness  I 
still  may  have  lurking  inside  me. 

She  and  Mrs.  Barnes  are  utterly  poor. 
When  the  war  began  Dolly  was  in  Germany, 
she  told  me  that  morning  in  the  kitchen- 
garden,  and  had  been  a  widow  nearly  a  year. 
Not  Siegfried's  widow:  Juchs's.  I  find  her 
widowhoods  confusing. 

"Didn't  you  ever  have  a  child,  Dolly?" 
I  asked. 

"No,"  she  said. 

'Then  how  is  it  you  twitched  the  hand- 
kerchief off  your  sister's  sleeping  face  that 
first  day  and  said  Peep  bo  to  her  so  profes- 
sionally?" 

"I  used  to  do  that  to  Siegfried.  We  were 
both  quite  young  to  begin  with,  and  played 
silly  games." 

t<  T  "    T  "1  «  /~*  " 

1  see,     1  said.        lio  on. 

Juchs    had     left    her    some    money;    just 

enough  to  live  on.     Siegfried  hadn't  ever  had 

any,  except  what  he  earned  as  a  clerk  in  a 

bank,  but  Juchs  had  had  some.     She  hadn't 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  197 

married  Juchs  for  any  reason,  I  gathered, 
except  to  please  him.  It  did  please  him  very 
much,  she  said,  and  I  can  quite  imagine  it. 
Siegfried,  too,  had  been  pleased  in  his  day. 
"I  seem  to  have  a  gift  for  pleasing  Germans," 
she  remarked,  smiling.  'They  were  both 
very  kind  to  me.  I  ended  by  being  very- 
fond  of  them  both.  I  believe  I'd  be  fond  of 
any  one  who  was  kind.  There's  a  good  deal 
of  the  dog  about  me." 

Directly  the  war  began  she  packed  up  and 
came  to  Switzerland;  she  didn't  wish,  under 
such  circumstances,  to  risk  pleasing  any  more 
Germans.  Since  her  marriage  to  Juchs  all 
her  English  relations  except  Kitty  had  cast 
her  off,  so  that  only  a  neutral  country  was 
open  to  her,  and  Kitty  instantly  gave  up 
everybody  and  everything  to  come  and  be 
with  her.  At  first  her  little  income  was  sent 
to  her  by  her  German  bank,  but  after  the 
first  few  months  it  sent  no  more,  and  she 
became  entirely  dependent  on  Kitty.  All 
that  Kitty  had  was  what  she  got  from  selling 
her  house.  The  Germans,  Dolly  said,  would 
send  no  money  out  of  the  country.  Though 
the  war  was  over  she  could  get  nothing  out 
of  them  unless  she  went  back.  She  would 
never  go  back.  It  would  kill  Kitty;  and 


198  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

she,  too,  she  thought,  would  very  likely  die. 
Her  career  of  pleasing  Germans  does  seem  to 
be  definitely  over. 

"So  you  see,"  she  said,  smiling,  "how  won- 
derful it  is  for  us  to  have  found  you.''' 

"What  I  can't  get  over,"  I  said,  "is  having 
found  you" 

But  I  wish,  having  found  her,  I  might 
sometimes  talk  to  her. 

September  l%th. 

We  live  here  in  an  atmosphere  of  combats 
de  generosite.  It  is  tremendous.  Mrs.  Barnes 
and  I  are  always  doing  things  we  don't  want 
to  do  because  we  suppose  it  is  what  is  going 
to  make  the  other  one  happy.  (,  The  tyranny 
of  unselfishness!  I  can  hardly  breathe. 

September  IQth. 

I  think  it  isn't  good  for  women  to  be  shut 
up  too  long  alone  together  without  a  man. 
They  seem  to  fester.  Even  the  noblest. 
Taking  our  intentions  all  round  they  really 
are  quite  noble.  We  do  only  want  to  de- 
velop in  ideal  directions,  and  remove  what  we 
think  are  the  obstacles  to  this  development 
in  each  other's  paths;  and  yet  we  fester. 
Not  Dolly.  Nothing  ever  smudges  her 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  199 

equable,  clear  wholesomeness ;  but  there  are 
moments  when  I  feel  as  if  Mrs.  Barnes  and  I 
got  much  mixed  up  together  in  a  sort  of 
sticky  mass.  Faint  struggles  from  time  to 
time,  brief  efforts  at  extrication,  show  there 
is  still  a  life  in  me  that  is  not  flawlessly 
benevolent,  but  I  repent  of  them  as  soon  as 
made  because  of  the  pain  and  surprise  that 
instantly  appear  in  Mrs.  Barnes's  tired, 
pathetic  eyes,  and  hastily  I  engulf  myself 
once  more  in  goodness. 

That's  why  I  haven't  written  lately — not 
for  a  whole  week.  It  is  glutinous,  the  pre- 
vailing goodness.  I  have  stuck.  I  have 
felt  as  though  my  mind  were  steeped  in 
treacle.  Then  to-day  I  remembered  my  old 
age,  and  the  old  lady  waiting  at  the  end  of 
the  years  who  will  want  to  be  amused,  so  I've 
begun  again.  I  have  an  idea  that  what  will 
really  most  amuse  that  old  lady,  that  wrinkled, 
philosophical  old  thing,  will  be  all  the  times 
when  I  was  being  uncomfortable.  She  will 
be  so  very  comfortable  herself,  so  done  with 
everything,  so  entirely  an  impartial  looker- 
on,  that  the  rebellions  and  contortions  and 
woes  of  the  creature  who  used  to  be  herself 
will  only  make  her  laugh.  She  will  be  blithe 
in  her  securitv.  Besides,  she  will  know  the 


200  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

sequel,  she  will  know  what  came  next,  and 
will  see,  I  daresay,  how  vain  the  expense  of 
trouble  and  emotions  was.  So  that  naturally 
she  will  laugh.  "You  silly  little  thing!" 
I  can  imagine  her  exclaiming,  "if  only  you 
had  known  how  it  all  wasn't  going  to  matter!" 
And  she  will  laugh  very  heartily;  for  I  am 
sure  she  will  be  a  gay  old  lady. 

But  what  we  really  want  here  now  is  an 
occasional  breath  of  brutality — the  passage, 
infrequent  and  not  too  much  prolonged,  of  a 
man.  If  he  came  to  tea  once  in  a  way  it 
would  do.  He  would  be  a  blast  of  fresh  air. 
He  would  be  like  opening  a  window.  We 
have  minced  about  among  solicitudes  and 
delicacies  so  very  long.  I  want  to  smell  the 
rankness  of  a  pipe,  and  see  the  cushions 
thrown  anyhow.  I  want  to  see  somebody  who 
doesn't  knit.  I  want  to  hear  Mrs.  Barnes 
being  contradicted.  Especially  do  I  want  to 
hear  Mrs.  Barnes  being  contradicted 
oh,  I'm  afraid  I'm  still  not  very  good! 

September  20th. 

The  grapes  are  ripe  down  in  the  vineyards 
along  the  edge  of  the  valley,  and  this  morning 
I  proposed  that  we  should  start  off  early  and 
spend  the  day  among  them  doing  a  grape-cure. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  201 

Mrs.  Barnes  liked  the  idea  very  much,  and 
sandwiches  were  ordered,  for  we  were  not  to 
come  back  till  evening;  then  at  the  last 
moment  she  thought  it  would  be  too  hot  in 
the  valley,  and  that  her  head,  which  has  been 
aching  lately,  might  get  worse.  The  sand- 
wiches were  ready  on  the  hall  table.  Dolly 
and  I  were  ready,  too,  boots  on  and  sticks  in 
hand.  To  our  great  surprise  Mrs.  Barnes, 
contemplating  the  sandwiches,  said  that  as 
they  had  been  cut  they  mustn't  be  \vasted, 
and  therefore  we  had  better  go  without  her. 

We  were  astonished.  We  were  like  chil- 
dren being  given  a  holiday.  She  kissed  us 
affectionately  when  we  said  good-bye,  as 
though  to  mark  her  trust  in  us — in  Dolly  that 
she  wouldn't  tell  me  the  dreadful  truth  about 
herself,  in  me  that  I  wouldn't  encourage  her 
in  undesirable  points  of  view.  How  safe  we 
were,  how  deserving  of  trust,  Mrs.  Barnes 
naturally  didn't  know.  Nothing  that  either  of 
us  could  say  could  possibly  upset  the  other. 

"If  Mrs.  Barnes  knew  the  worst,  knew  I 
knew  everything,  wouldn't  she  be  happier?" 
I  asked  Dolly  as  we  went  briskly  down  the 
mountain.  "Wouldn't  at  least  part  of  her 
daily  anxiety  be  got  rid  of,  her  daily  fear  lest 
I  should  get  to  know?" 


202  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"It  would  kill  her,"  said  Dolly,  firmly. 

"But  surely- 

'You  mustn't  forget  that  she  thinks  what 
I  did  was  a  crime." 

;'You  mean  the  uncle." 

"Oh,  she  wouldn't  very  much  mind  your 
knowing  about  Siegfried.  She  would  do  her 
utmost  to  prevent  it,  because  of  her  horror 
of  Germans  and  of  the  horror  she  assumes 
you  have  of  Germans.  But  once  you  did 
know  she  would  be  resigned.  The  other- 
Dolly  shook  her  head.  "It  would  kill  her," 
she  said  again. 

We  came  to  a  green  slope  starred  thick 
with  autumn  crocuses,  and  sat  down  to  look 
at  them.  These  delicate,  lovely  things  have 
been  appearing  lately  on  the  mountain,  at 
first  one  by  one  and  then  in  flocks — pale 
cups  of  light,  lilac  on  long  white  stalks  that 
snap  off  at  a  touch.  Like  the  almond  trees 
in  the  suburban  gardens  round  London  that 
flower  when  the  winds  are  cruellest,  the 
autumn  crocuses  seem  too  frail  to  face  the 
cold  nights  we  are  having  now;  yet  it  is  just 
when  conditions  are  growing  unkind  that  they 
come  out.  There  they  are,  all  over  the  moun- 
tain fields,  flowering  in  greater  profusion 
the  further  the  month  moves  toward  winter. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  203 

This  particular  field  of  them  was  so  beautiful 
that  with  one  accord  Dolly  and  I  sat  down  to 
look.  One  doesn't  pass  such  beauty  by. 
I  think  we  sat  quite  half  an  hour  drinking  in 
those  crocuses,  and  their  sunny  plateau,  and 
the  way  the  tops  of  the  pine  trees  on  the  slope 
below  stood  out  against  the  blue  emptiness 
of  the  valley.  We  were  most  content.  The 
sun  was  so  warm,  the  air  of  such  an  extraor- 
dinary fresh  purity.  Just  to  breathe  was 
happiness.  I  think  that  in  my  life  I  have 
been  most  blest  in  this,  that  so  often  just  to 
breathe  has  been  happiness. 

Dolly  and  I,  now  that  we  could  talk  as 
much  as  we  wanted  to,  didn't  after  all  talk 
much.  Suddenly  I  felt  incurious  about  her 
Germans.  I  didn't  want  them  among  the 
crocuses.  The  past,  both  hers  and  mine, 
seemed  to  matter  very  little,  seemed  a  stuffy, 
indifferent  thing,  in  that  clear  present.  I 
don't  suppose  if  we  hadn't  brought  an  empty 
basket  with  us  on  purpose  to  take  back 
grapes  to  Mrs.  Barnes  that  we  would  have 
gone  on  down  to  the  vineyards  at  all,  but 
rather  have  spent  the  day  just  where  we 
were.  The  basket,  however,  had  to  be  filled; 
it  had  to  be  brought  back  filled.  It  was  to 
be  the  proof  that  we  had  done  what  we  said 


204  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

we  would.  Kitty,  said  Dolly,  would  be 
fidgeted  if  we  hadn't  carried  out  the  original 
plan,  and  might  be  afraid  that  if  we  weren't 
eating  grapes  all  day  as  arranged  we  were 
probably  using  our  idle  mouths  for  saying 
things  she  wished  left  unsaid. 

"Does  poor  Kitty  always  fidget?"  I  asked. 

"Always,"  said  Dolly. 

"About  every  single  thing  that  might 
happen?" 

"Every  single  thing,"  said  Dolly.  "She 
spends  her  life  now  entirely  in  fear — and  it's 
all  because  of  me." 

"But  really,  while  she  is  with  me  she  could 
have  a  holiday  from  fear  if  we  told  her  I  knew 
about  your  uncle  and  had  accepted  it  with  calm . ' ' 

"It  would  kill  her,"  said  Dolly  once  more, 
firmly. 

We  lunched  in  the  vineyards,  and  our 
dessert  was  grapes.  We  ate  them  for  a  long 
while  with  enthusiasm,  and  went  on  eating 
them  through  every  degree  of  declining 
pleasure  till  we  disliked  them.  For  fifty 
centimes  each  the  owner  gave  us  permission 
to  eat  grapes  till  we  died  if  we  wished  to. 
For  another  franc  we  were  allowed  to  fill  the 
basket  for  Mrs.  Barnes.  Only  conscientious- 
ness made  us  fill  it  full,  for  we  couldn't  believe 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  205 

anybody  would  really  want  to  eat  such  things 
as  grapes.  Then  we  began  to  crawl  up  the 
mountain  again,  greatly  burdened  both  inside 
and  out. 

It  took  us  over  three  hours  to  get  home. 
\Ve  carried  the  basket  in  turns,  half  an  hour 
at  a  time;  but  what  about  those  other, 
invisible,  grapes,  that  came  with  us  as  well? 
I  think  people  who  have  been  doing  a  grape- 
cure  should  sit  quiet  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
or  else  walk  only  on  the  level.  To  have  to 
take  one's  cure  up  five  thousand  feet  with 
one  is  hard.  Again  we  didn't  talk;  this  time 
because  we  couldn't.  All  that  we  could  do 
was  to  pant  and  to  perspire.  It  was  a  bril- 
liant afternoon,  and  the  way  led  up  when 
the  vineyards  left  off  through  stunted  fir 
trees  that  gave  no  shade,  along  narrow  paths 
strewn  with  dry  fir  needles — the  slipperiest 
things  in  the  world  to  walk  on.  Through 
these  hot,  shadeless  trees  the  sun  beat  on  our 
bent  and  burdened  figures.  Whenever  we 
stopped  to  rest  and  caught  sight  of  each 
other's  flushed,  wet  faces  we  laughed. 

"Kitty  needn't  have  been  afraid  we'd  say 
much,"  panted  Dolly  in  one  of  these  pauses, 
her  eyes  screwed  up  with  laughter  at  my 
melted  state. 


206  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  knew  what  I  must  be  looking  like  by 
looking  at  her. 

It  was  five  o'clock  by  the  time  we  reached 
the  field  with  the  crocuses,  and  we  sank  down 
on  the  grass  where  we  had  sat  in  the  morning, 
speechless,  dripping,  overwhelmed  by  grapes. 
For  a  long  while  we  said  nothing.  It  was 
bliss  to  lie  in  the  cool  grass  and  not  to  have 
to  carry  anything.  The  sun,  low  in  the 
sky,  slanted  almost  level  along  the  field, 
and  shining  right  through  the  thin-petalled 
crocuses  made  of  each  a  little  star.  I  don't 
know  anything  more  happy  than  to  be  where 
it  is  beautiful  with  someone  who  sees  and 
loves  it  as  much  as  you  do  yourself.  We  lay 
stretched  out  on  the  grass,  quite  silent, 
watching  the  splendour  grow  and  grow  till, 
having  reached  a  supreme  moment  of  radi- 
ance, it  suddenly  went  out.  The  sun  dropped 
behind  the  mountains  along  to  the  west, 
and  out  went  the  light;  with  a  flick;  in  an 
instant.  And  the  crocuses,  left  standing  in 
their  drab  field,  looked  like  so  many  blown- 
out  candles. 

Dolly  sat  up. 

"There,  now,"  she  said.  "That's  over. 
They  look  as  blind  and  dim  as  a  woman  whose 
lover  has  left  her.  Have  you  ever,"  she  asked. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  207 

turning  her  head  to  me  still  lying  pillowed 
on  Mrs.  Barnes's  grapes — the  basket  had  a 
lid— "seen  a  woman  whose  lover  has  left 
her?" 

"Of  course  I  have.  Everybody  has  been 
left  by  somebody." 

"I  mean  just  left." 

''Yes.     I've  seen  that,  too." 

"They  look  exactly  like  that,"  said  Dolly, 
nodding  toward  the  crocuses.  "Smitten 
colourless.  Light  gone,  life  gone,  beauty 
gone — dead  things  in  a  dead  world.  I  don't," 
she  concluded,  shaking  her  head  slowly, 
"hold  with  love." 

At  this  I  sat  up,  too,  and  began  to  tidy  my 
hair  and  put  my  hat  on  again.  "It's  cold," 
I  said,  "now  that  the  sun  is  gone.  Let  us  go 
home." 

Dolly  didn't  move. 

"Do  you?"  she  asked. 

"Do  I  what?" 

"Hold  with  love." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Whatever  happens?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Whatever  its  end  is?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "And  I  wTon't  even  say  yes 
and  no,  as  the  cautious  Charlotte  Bronte  did 


208  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

when  she  was  asked  if  she  liked  London.  I 
won't  be  cautious  in  love.  I  won't  look  at  all 
the  reasons  for  saying  no.  It's  a  glorious 
thing  to  have  had.  It's  splendid  to  have 
believed  all  one  did  believe." 

"Even  when  there  never  was  a  shred  of 
justification  for  the  belief?"  asked  Dolly, 
watching  me. 

;'Yes,"  I  said;  and  began  passionately  to 
pin  my  hat  on,  digging  the  pins  into  my  head 
in  my  vehemence.  'Yes.  The  thing  is  to 
believe.  Not  go  round  first  cautiously  on 
tip-toe  so  as  to  be  sure  before  believing  and 
trusting  that  your  precious  belief  and  trust 
are  going  to  be  safe.  Safe!  There's  no 
safety  in  love.  You  risk  the  whole  of  life. 
But  the  great  thing  is  to  risk — to  believe, 
and  to  risk  everything  for  your  belief.  And 
if  there  wasn't  anything  there,  if  it  was  you 
all  by  yourself  who  imagined  the  beautiful, 
kind  things  in  the  other  one,  the  wonderful, 
generous,  beautiful  kind  things,  what  does  it 
matter?  They  weren't  there,  but  you  for 
once  were  capable  of  imagining  them.  You 
were  up  among  the  stars  for  a  little,  you  did 
touch  heaven.  And  when  you've  had  the 
tumble  down  again  and  you're  scrunched  all 
to  pieces  and  are  just  a  miserable  heap  of 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  209 

blood  and  brokenness,  where's  your  grit  that 
you  should  complain?  Haven't  you  seen 
wonders  up  there  past  all  telling,  and  had 
supreme  joys?  It's  because  you  were  up  in 
heaven  that  your  fall  is  so  tremendous  and 
hurts  so.  What  you've  got  to  do  is  not  to  be 
killed.  You've  got  at  all  costs  to  stay  alive, 
so  that  for  the  rest  of  your  days  you  may 
go  gratefully,  giving  thanks  to  God  that 
once  .  .  .  you  see,"  I  finished,  suddenly, 
"I'm  a  great  believer  in  saying  thank 

you." 

"Oh,"  said  Dolly,  laying  her  hand  on  my 
knee  and  looking  at  me  very  kindly,  "I'm 
so  glad!" 

"Now  what  are  you  glad  about,  Dolly?" 
I  asked,  turning  on  her  and  giving  my  hat  a 
pull  straight.  And  I  added,  my  chin  in  the 
air,  "Those  dead  women  of  yours  in  their 
dead  world,  indeed!  Ashamed  of  them- 
selves— that's  what  they  ought  to  be." 

"You're  cured,"  said  Dolly. 

"Cured?"  I  echoed. 

I  stared  at  her  severely.  "Oh — I  see,"  1 
said.  ''You've  been  drawing  me  out." 

"Of    course    I    have.     I    couldn't    bear    to 
think    of    you    going    on    being    unhappy- 
hankering— 


210  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Hankering?'* 

Dolly  got  up.  "Now  let's  go  home,"  she 
said.  "It's  my  turn  to  carry  the  basket. 
Yes,  it's  a  horrid  word.  Nobody  should  ever 
hanker.  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  you  did.  I've 
been  afraid  that  perhaps— 

"Hankering!" 

I  got  up,  too,  and  stood  very  straight. 

"Give  me  those  grapes,"  said  Dolly. 

"Hankering!"  I  said  again. 

And  the  rest  of  the  way  home,  along  the 
cool  path  where  the  dusk  was  gathering 
among  the  bushes  and  the  grass  was  damp 
now  beneath  our  dusty  shoes,  we  walked 
with  heads  held  high — hankering  indeed!— 
two  women  surely  in  perfect  harmony  with 
life  and  the  calm  evening,  women  of  wisdom 
and  intelligence,  of  a  proper  pride  and  self- 
respect,  kind  women,  good  women,  pleasant, 
amiable  women,  contented  women,  pleased 
women;  and  at  the  last  corner,  the  last  one 
between  us  and  Mrs.  Barnes's  eye  on  the 
terrace,  Dolly  stopped,  put  down  the  basket, 
and  laying  both  her  arms  about  my  shoulders 
kissed  me. 

"Cured,"  she  said,  kissing  me  on  one  side  of 
my  face.  "Safe,"  she  said,  kissing  me  on  the 
other. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  211 

And  we  laughed,  both  of  us,  confident 
and  glad.  And  I  went  up  to  my  room 
confident  and  glad,  for  if  I  felt  cured  and 
Dolly  was  sure  I  was  cured,  mustn't  it  be 
true? 

Hankering  indeed. 

September  %\st. 

But  I'm  not  cured.  For  when  I  was  alone 
in  my  room  last  night  and  the  house  was 
quiet  with  sleep,  a  great  emptiness  came  upon 
me,  and  those  fine,  defiant  words  of  mine  in, 
the  afternoon  seemed  poor  things,  poor 
dwindled  things,  like  kaisers  in  their  night- 
gowns. For  hours  I  lay  awake  with  only  one 
longing:  to  creep  back — back  into  my  shat- 
tered beliefs,  even  if  it  were  the  littlest 
corner  of  them.  Surely  there  must  be  some 
corner  of  them  still,  with  squeezing,  habit- 
able? I'm  so  small.  I  need  hardly  any 
room.  I'd  curl  up.  I'd  fit  myself  in.  And 
I  wouldn't  look  at  the  ruin  of  the  great-splen- 
did spaces  I  once  thought  I  lived  in,  but  be 
content  with  a  few  inches.  Oh,  it's  cold,  cold, 
cold,  left  outside  of  faith  like  this. 

For  hours  I  lay  awake;  and  being  ashamed 
of  myself  did  no  good,  because  love  doesn't 
mind  about  being  ashamed. 


212  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Evening. 

All  day  I've  slunk  about  in  silence,  watch- 
ing for  a  moment  alone  with  Dolly.  I  want 
to  tell  her  that  it  was  only  one  side  of  me 
yesterday,  and  that  there's  another,  and 
another — oh,  so  many  others;  that  I  meant 
every  word  I  said,  but  there  are  other  things, 
quite  different,  almost  opposite  things  that  I 
also  mean;  that  it's  true  I'm  cured,  but  only 
cured  in  places,  and  over  the  rest  of  me,  the 
rest  that  is  still  sick,  great  salt  waves  of 
memories  wash  every  now  and  then  and  bite 
and  bite.  .  .  . 

But  Dolly,  who  seems  more  like  an  un- 
ruffled pool  of  clear  water  to-day  than  ever, 
hasn't  left  Mrs.  Barnes's  side;  making  up, 
I  suppose,  for  being  away  from  her  all  yester- 
day. 

Toward  tea-time  I  became  aware  that 
Mrs.  Barnes  was  watching  me  with  a  worried 
face,  the  well-known  worried,  anxious  face, 
and  I  guessed  she  was  wondering  if  Dolly 
had  been  indiscreet  on  our  picnic  and  told  me 
things  that  had  shocked  me  into  silence. 
So  I  cast  about  in  my  mind  for  something  to 
reassure  her,  and,  as  I  thought  fortunately, 
very  soon  remembered  the  grapes. 

"I'm  afraid  I  ate  too  many  grapes  yester- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  213 

day,"  I  said,  when  next  I  caught  her  worried, 
questioning  eye. 

Her  face  cleared.  I  congratulated  myself. 
But  I  didn't  congratulate  myself  long;  for 
Mrs.  Barnes,  all  motherly  solicitude,  inquired 
if  by  any  chance  I  had  swallowed  some  of  the 
stones;  and  desiring  to  reassure  her  to  the 
utmost  as  to  the  reason  of  my  thoughtfulness, 
I  said  that  very  likely  I  had;  from  the  feel 
of  things;  from  the  kind  of  heaviness.  .  .  . 
And  she,  before  I  could  stop  her,  had  darted 
into  the  kitchen — these  lean  women  are 
terribly  nimble — and  before  I  could  turn 
round  or  decide  what  to  do  next,  for  by  this 
time  I  was  suspicious,  she  was  back  again 
with  Mrs.  Antoine  and  all  the  dreadful 
paraphernalia  of  castor  oil.  And  I  had  to 
drink  it.  And  it  seemed  hard  that  because 
I  had  been  so  benevolently  desirous  to 
reassure  Mrs.  Barnes  I  should  have  to  drink 
castor  oil  and  be  grateful  to  her  as  well. 

'This  is  petty,"  I  thought,  sombrely  eyeing 
the  bottle — I  alluded  in  my  mind  to  Fate. 

But  as  I  had  to  drink  the  stuff  I  might  as 
well  do  it  gallantly.  And  so  I  did;  tossing 
it  off  with  an  air,  after  raising  the  glass  and 
wishing  the  onlookers  health  and  happiness 
in  what  I  tried  to  make  a  pleasant  speech. 


214  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Mrs.  Barnes,  Mrs.  Antoine,  and  Dolly  stood 
watching  me  spellbound.  A  shudder  rippled 
over  them  as  the  last  drops  slid  down. 

Then  I  came  up  here. 

September  %%nd. 

Let  me  draw  your  attention,  O  ancient 
woman  sitting  at  the  end  of  my  life,  to  the 
colour  of  the  trees  and  bushes  in  this  place 
you  once  lived  in,  in  autumns  that  for  you 
are  now  so  far  away.  Do  you  remember 
how  it  was  like  flames,  and  the  very  air  was 
golden?  The  hazel -bushes — do  you  remem- 
ber them?  Along  the  path  that  led  down 
from  the  terrace  to  the  village?  How  each 
separate  one  was  like  a  heap  of  light?  Do 
you  remember  how  you  spent  to-day,  the 
22nd  of  September,  1919,  lying  on  a  rug  in 
the  sun  close  up  under  one  of  them,  content 
to  stare  at  the  clear  yellow  leaves  against 
the  amazing  sky?  You've  forgotten,  I  dare- 
say. You're  only  thinking  of  your  next 
meal  and  being  put  to  bed.  But  you  did 
spend  a  day  to-day  worth  remembering. 
You  were  very  content.  You  were  exactly 
balanced  in  the  present,  without  a  single 
oscillation  toward  either  the  past,  a  period 
you  hadn't  then  learned  to  regard  with  the 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  215 

levity  for  which  you  are  now  so  remarkable, 
or  to  the  future,  which  you  at  that  time, 
however  much  the  attitude  may  amuse  you 
now,  thought  of  with  doubt  and  often  with 
fear.  Mrs.  Barnes  let  you  go  to-day,  having 
an  appreciation  of  the  privileges  due  to  the 
dosed,  and  you  took  a  cushion  and  a  rug — 
active,  weren't  you? — and  there  you  lay  the 
whole  blessed  day,  the  sun  warm  on  your 
body,  enfolded  in  freshness,  thinking  of 
nothing  but  calm  things.  Rather  like  a  baby 
you  were;  a  baby  on  its  back  sucking  its  thumb 
and  placidly  contemplating  the  nursery  ceil- 
ing. But  the  ceiling  was  the  great  sky,  with 
two  eagles  ever  so  far  up  curving  in  its  depths, 
and  when  they  sloped  their  wings  the  sun 
caught  them  and  they  flashed. 

It  seems  a  pity  to  forget  these  things. 
They  make  up,  after  all,  the  real  preciousness 
of  life.  But  I'm  afraid  my  writing  them 
down  won't  make  you  feel  any  joy  in  them 
again,  you  old  thing.  You'll  be  too  brittle 
and  rheumaticky  to  be  able  to  think  of  lying 
on  the  grass  for  a  whole  day  except  with 
horror.  I'm  beginning  to  dislike  the  idea  of 
being  forced  into  your  old  body;  and,  on 
reflection,  your  philosophical  detachment, 
your  incapacity  to  do  anything  but  laugh  at 


216  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  hopes  and  griefs  and  exultations  and 
disappointments  and  bitter  pains  of  your 
past,  seems  to  me  very  like  the  fixed  grimace 
of  fleshless  death. 

September  23rd. 

Mrs.  Barnes  can't,  however  hard  she  tries, 
be  with  us  absolutely  continuously.  Gaps 
in  her  attendance  do  inevitably  occur.  There 
was  one  of  them  to-day;  and  I  seized  it  to 
say  to  Dolly  across  the  momentarily  empty 
middle  chair — we  were  on  the  terrace  and 
the  reading  was  going  on—  "I've  not  seen 
you  alone  since  the  grape  day.  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  that  I'm  not  cured.  I  had  a  relapse 
that  very  night.  I  meant  all  I  said  to  you, 
but  I  meant,  too,  all  I  said  to  myself  while  I 
was  having  the  relapse.  You'd  better  know 
the  worst.  I  simply  intolerably  hankered." 

Dolly  let  Merivale  fall  on  her  lap,  and 
gazed  pensively  at  the  distant  mountains 
across  the  end  of  the  valley. 

"It's  only  the  last  growlings,"  she  said 
after  a  moment. 

"Growlings?"  I  echoed. 

"It's  only  the  last  growlings  and  mutter- 
ings  of  a  thunderstorm  that's  going  away. 
Whatever  it  was  that  happened  to  you— 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  217 

you've  never  told  me,  you  know,  but  I'm 
quite  good  at  somehow  knowing — was  very 
like  a  thunderstorm.  A  violent  one.  It  was 
rather  brief,  it  raged  incredibly,  and  then  it 
rumbled  off.  Though  you  were  flattened  out 
while  it  was  going  on,  like  some  otherwise 
promising  crop — 

"Oh,"  I  protested;  but  I  had  to  laugh. 

—still  when  it  took  itself  off  you  missed 
it.  I  wouldn't  talk  like  this,"  she  said, 
turning  her  sweet  eyes  to  me,  "I  wouldn't 
make  fun  if  I  weren't  sure  you  are  on  the 
road,  anyhow,  to  being  cured.  Presently 
you'll  reach  the  stage  when  you  begin  to 
realize  that  falling  out  of  love  is  every  bit  as 
agreeable  as  falling  in.  It  is,  you  know. 
It's  a  wonderful  feeling,  that  gradual  restora- 
tion to  freedom  and  one's  friends." 

''You  don't  understand,  after  all,"  I  said. 

Dolly  said  she  did. 

"No.  Because  you  talk  of  falling  out  of 
love.  What  has  happened  to  me  is  far  worse 
than  that.  That?  That's  nothing.  It's 
what  everybody  is  doing  all  the  time.  What 
has  happened  to  me  is  that  I've  lost  my  faith. 
It  has  been  like  losing  God,  after  years  of 
trust  in  Him.  I  believed  with  all  my  heart. 
And  I  am  desolate." 


218  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

But  Dolly  only  shook  her  head.  "You're 
not  as  desolate  as  you  were,"  she  said.  "No- 
body who  loves  all  this  as  you  do"  -  and  she 
turned  up  her  face  to  the  warm  sun,  blinking 
her  eyes —  "can  go  on  being  desolate  long. 
Besides — really,  you  know — look  at  that." 

And  she  pointed  to  the  shining  mountains 
across  the  valley's  eastern  end. 

"Yes.  That  is  eternal.  Beauty  is  eternal. 
When  I  look  at  that,  when  I  am  in  the  clear 
mood  that,  looking  at  the  mountains,  really 
sees  them,  all  the  rest,  the  bewilderment  and 
crying  out,  the  clinging  and  the  hankering, 
seem  indeed  unworthy.  Imagine,  with  the 
vast  landscape  of  the  splendid  world  spread 
out  before  you,  not  moving  freely  in  it  on 
and  on,  rejoicing  and  praising  God,  but 
sitting  quite  still  lamenting  in  one  spot, 
stuck  in  sediment." 

"Did  you  say  sentiment?"  asked  Dolly. 

"Did  I  say  anything?"  I  asked  in  surprise, 
turning  my  head  to  her.  "I  thought  I  was 
thinking." 

;'You  were  doing  it  aloud,  then,"  said 
Dolly.  "Was  the  word  sentiment?" 

"No.     Sediment." 

'  They're  the  same  thing.  I  hate  them 
both."  ' 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  219 

September  %4>th. 

What  will  happen  to  Mrs.  Barnes  and 
Dolly  when  I  go  back  to  England?  The 
weather  was  a  little  fidgety  to-day  and 
yesterday,  a  little  troubled,  like  a  creature 
that  stirs  fretfully  in  its  sleep,  and  it  set 
me  thinking.  For  once  the  change  really 
begins  at  this  time  of  the  year  it  doesn't 
stop  any  more.  It  goes  on  through  an 
increasing  unpleasantness — winds,  rain,  snow, 
blizzards — till,  after  Christinas,  the  real  win- 
ter begins,  without  a  cloud,  without  a  stir  of 
the  air,  its  short  days  flooded  with  sunshine, 
its  dawns  and  twilights  miracles  of  colour. 

All  that  fuss  and  noise  of  snow-flurries 
and  howling  winds  is  only  the  preparation 
for  the  great  final  calm.  The  last  blizzard, 
tearing  away  over  the  mountains,  is  like 
an  ugly  curtain  rolling  up;  and  behold  a 
new  world.  One  night  while  you  are  asleep 
the  howls  and  rattlings  suddenly  leave  off, 
and  in  the  morning  you  look  out  of  the  window 
and  for  the  first  time  for  weeks  you  see  the 
mountains  at  the  end  of  the  valley  clear 
against  the  eastern  sky,  clothed  in  all  new 
snow  from  head  to  foot,  and  behind  them  the 
lovely  green  where  the  sunrise  is  getting  ready. 
I  know,  because  I  was  obliged  to  be  here 


220  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

through  the  October  and  November  and 
December  of  the  year  the  house  was  built  and 
was  being  furnished.  They  were  three  most 
horrid  months;  and  the  end  of  them  was 
heaven. 

But  what  will  become  of  Mrs.  Barnes  and 
Dolly  when  the  weather  does  finally  break  up? 

I  can't  face  the  picture  of  them  spending 
a  gloomy,  half-warmed  winter  down  in  some 
cheap  pension;  an  endless  winter  of  doing 
without  things,  of  watching  every  franc. 
They've  been  living  like  that  for  five  years 
now.  Where  does  Dolly  get  her  sweet  serenity 
from?  I  wish  I  could  take  them  to  England 
with  me.  But  Dolly  can't  go  to  England. 
She  is  German.  She  is  doomed.  And  Mrs. 
Barnes  is  doomed,  too,  inextricably  tied  up  in 
Dolly's  fate.  Of  course  I  am  going  to  beg 
them  to  stay  on  here,  but  it  seems  a  poor  thing 
to  offer  them,  to  live  up  here  in  blizzards 
that  I  run  away  from  myself.  It  does  seem  a 
very  doubtful  offer  of  hospitality.  I  ought, 
to  make  it  real,  to  stay  on  with  them.  And  I 
simply  couldn't.  I  do  believe  I  would  die  if 
I  had  three  months  shut  up  with  Mrs.  Barnes 
in  blizzards.  Let  her  have  everything— the 
house,  the  Antoines,  all,  all  that  I  possess; 
but  only  let  me  go. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  221 

My  spirit  faints  at  the  task  before  me, 
at  the  thought  of  the  persuasions  and  the 
protests  that  will  have  to  be  gone  through. 
And  Dolly;  how  can  I  leave  Dolly?  I 
shall  be  haunted  in  London  by  visions  of 
these  two  up  here,  the  wind  raging  round 
the  house,  the  snow  piled  up  to  the  bedroom 
windows,  sometimes  cut  off  for  a  whole 
week  from  the  village,  because  only  in  a 
pause  in  the  blizzard  can  the  little  black 
figures  that  are  peasants  come  sprawling 
over  the  snow  with  their  shovels  to  dig 
one  out.  I  know  because  I  have  been  through 
it  that  first  winter.  But  it  was  all  new  to  us 
then,  and  we  were  a  care-free,  cheerful  group 
inside  the  house,  five  people  who  loved  each 
other  and  talked  about  anything  they  wanted 
to,  besides  being  backed  reassuringly  by  a  sack 
of  lentils  and  several  sacks  of  potatoes  that 
Antoine,  even  then  prudent  and  my  right 
hand,  had  laid  in  for  just  this  eventuality. 
AVe  made  great  fires,  and  brewed  strange 
drinks.  AYe  sat  round  till  far  into  the 
nights  telling  ghost  stories.  We  laughed 
a  good  deal,  and  said  just  what  we  felt 
like  saying.  But  Mrs.  Barnes  and  Dolly? 
Alone  up  here,  and  undugout?  It  will  haunt 
me. 


222  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

September  25th. 

She  hasn't  noticed  the  weather  yet.  At 
least,  she  has  drawn  no  deductions  from  it. 
Evidently  she  thinks  its  fitfulness,  its  gleams 
of  sunshine  and  its  uneasy  cloudings  over, 
are  just  a  passing  thing  and  that  it  soon 
will  settle  down  again  to  what  it  was  before. 
After  all,  she  no  doubt  says  to  herself,  it 
is  still  September.  But  Antoine  knows  bet- 
ter, and  so  do  I,  and  it  is  merely  hours  now 
before  the  break-up  will  be  plain  even  to 
Mrs.  Barnes.  Then  the  combats  de  gene- 
rosite  will  begin.  I  can't,  I  can't  stop  here 
so  that  Mrs.  Barnes  may  be  justified  to 
herself  in  stopping,  too,  ont  he  ground  of 
cheering  my  solitude.  I  drank  the  castor 
oil  solely  that  her  mind  might  be  at  rest, 
but  I  can't  develop  any  further  along 
lines  of  such  awful  magnanimity.  I  would 
die. 

September  %6th. 

To-day  I  smoked  twelve  cigarettes,  only 
that  the  house  should  smell  virile.  They're 
not  as  good  as  a  pipe  for  that,  but  they're 
better  than  the  eternal  characterless,  clean 
smell  of  unselfish  women. 

After  each  cigarette   Mrs.   Barnes  got  up 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  223 

unobtrusively  and  aired  the  room.  Then 
I  lit  another. 

Also  I  threw  the  cushions  on  the  floor 
before  flinging  myself  on  the  sofa  in  the 
hall;  and  presently  Mrs.  Barnes  came  and 
tidied  them. 

Then  I  threw  them  down  again. 

Toward  evening  she  asked  me  if  I  was 
feeling  quite  well.  I  wasn't,  because  of 
the  cigarettes,  but  I  didn't  tell  her  that. 
I  said  I  felt  very  well  indeed.  Naturally 
I  couldn't  explain  to  her  that  I  had  only 
been  trying  to  pretend  there  was  a  man  about. 

'You're  sure  those  grape-stones ?"  she 

began,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  certain!"  I  cried;  and  hastily  be- 
came meek. 

September  %7th. 

Oaths,  now.  I  shrink  from  so  much  as 
suggesting  it,  but  there  is  something  to 
be  said  for  them.  They're  so  brief.  They 
get  the  mood  over.  They  clear  the  air. 
Women  explain  and  protest  and  tip-toe  tact- 
fully about  among  what  they  think  are 
your  feelings,  and  there's  no  end  to  it.  And 
then,  if  they're  good  women,  good,  affec- 
tionate, unselfish  women,  they  have  a  way  of 


224  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

forgiving  you.  They  keep  on  forgiving  you. 
Freely.  With  a  horrible  magnanimousness. 
Mrs.  Barnes  insisted  on  forgiving  me  yester- 
day for  the  cigarettes,  for  the  untidiness.  It 
isn't  a  happy  thing,  I  think,  to  be  shut  up  in  a 
small,  lonely  house  being  forgiven. 

September  %8th. 

In  the  night  the  wind  shook  the  windows 
and  the  rain  pelted  against  them,  and  I 
knew  that  when  I  went  down  to  break- 
fast the  struggle  with  Mrs.  Barnes  would 
begin. 

It  did.  It  began  directly  after  breakfast  in 
the  hall,  where  Antoine,  remarking  firmly 
"C'est  Vhiver"  had  lit  a  roaring  fire,  deter- 
mined this  time  to  stand  no  parsimonious 
nonsense;  and  it  has  gone  on  all  day,  with  the 
necessary  intervals  for  recuperation. 

Nothing  has  been  settled.  I  still  don't 
in  the  least  know  what  to  do.  Mrs.  Barnes's 
attitude  is  obstinately  unselfish.  She  and 
Dolly,  she  reiterates,  won't  dream  of  staying 
on  here  unless  they  feel  that  by  doing  so 
they  could  be  of  service  to  me  by  keeping 
me  company.  If  I'm  not  here  I  can't  be 
kept  company  with;  that,  she  says,  I  must 
admit. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  225 

I  do.  Every  time  she  says  it — it  has  been 
a  day  of  reiterations — I  admit  it.  There- 
fore, if  I  go  they  go,  she  finishes  with  a 
kind  of  sombre  triumph  at  her  determina- 
tion not  to  give  trouble  or  be  an  expense; 
but  words  fail  her,  she  adds  (this  is  a  delu- 
sion) to  express  her  gratitude  for  my  offer, 
etc.,  and  never,  for  the  rest  of  their  lives,  will 
she  and  Dolly  forget  the  delightful  etc.,  etc. 

What  am  I  to  do?  I  don't  know.  How 
lightly  one  embarks  on  marriage  and  on 
guests,  and  in  what  unexpected  directions 
do  both  develop!  Also,  what  a  terrible 
thing  is  unselfishness.  )  Once  it  has  become 
a  habit,  how  tough,  how  difficult  to  uproot. 
A  single  obstinately  unselfish  person  can 
wreck  the  happiness  of  a  whole  household. 
Is  it  possible  that  I  shall  have  to  stay  here? 
And  I  have  so  many  things  waiting  for  me 
in  England  that  have  to  be  done. 

There's  a  fire  in  my  bedroom,  and  I've  been 
sitting  on  the  floor  staring  into  it  for  the  past 
hour,  seeking  a  solution.  Because  all  the 
while  Mrs.  Barnes  is  firmly  refusing  to  listen 
for  a  moment  to  my  entreaties  to  use  the 
house  while  I'm  away,  her  thin  face  is  hungry 
with  longing  to  accept,  and  the  mere  talking, 
however  bravely,  of  taking  up  the  old  home- 


226  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

less  wandering  again  fills  her  tired  eyes  with 
tears. 

Once  I  got  so  desperate  that  I  begged  her 
to  stay  as  a  kindness  to  me,  in  order  to 
keep  an  eye  on  those  patently  efficient 
and  trustworthy  Antoines.  This,  indeed,  was 
the  straw-clutching  of  the  drowning,  and 
even  Mrs.  Barnes,  that  rare  smiler,  smiled. 

No.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  How 
the  wind  screams.  I'll  go  to  bed. 

September  %9th. 

And  there's  nothing  to  be  done  with 
Dolly,  either. 

'You  told  me  you  put  your  foot  down 
sometimes,"  I  said,  appealing  to  her  this 
morning  in  one  of  Mrs.  Barnes's  brief  ab- 
sences. "Why  don't  you  put  it  down  now?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Dolly. 

"But  why  not?"  I  asked,  exasperated. 
"  It's  so  reasonable  what  I  suggest,  so  easy— 

"I  don't  want  to  stay  here  without  you," 
said  Dolly.  'This  place  is  you.  You've 
made  it.  It  is  soaked  in  you.  I  should 
feel  haunted  here  without  you.  Why,  I 
should  feel  lost." 

"As  though  you  would!  When  we  hardly 
speak  to  each  other  as  it  is— 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  227 

"But  I  watch  you,"  said  Dolly,  smiling, 
"and  I  know  what  you're  thinking.  You've 
no  idea  how  what  you're  thinking  comes  out 
on  your  face." 

"But  if  it  makes  your  unhappy  sister's 
mind  more  comfortable?  If  she  feels  free 
from  anxiety  here?  If  she  feels  you  are 
safe  here?"  I  passionately  reasoned. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  safe." 

"Oh,  Dolly — you're  not  going  to  break 
out  again?"  I  asked,  as  anxiously  every 
bit  as  poor  Mrs.  Barnes  would  have  asked. 

Dolly  laughed.  "I'll  never  do  anything 
again  that  makes  Kitty  unhappy,"  she  said. 
"But  I  do  like  the  feeling—  '  she  made  a 
movement  with  her  arms  as  though  they 
were  wings —  "oh,  I  like  the  feeling  of  having 
room!" 

September  30th. 

The  weather  is  better  again,  and  there 
has  been  a  pause  in  our  strivings.  Mrs. 
Barnes  and  I  drifted,  tired  both  of  us,  I  rest- 
ing in  that  refuge  of  the  weak,  the  putting 
off  of  making  up  my  mind,  back  into  talking 
only  of  the  situation  and  the  view.  If 
Mrs.  Barnes  were  either  less  good  or  more 
intelligent!  But  the  combination  of  non- 


228  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

intelligence  with  goodness  is  unassailable 
You  can't  get  through.  Nothing  gets  through. 
You  give  in.  You  are  flattened  out.  You 
become  a  slave.  And  your  case  is  indeed 
hopeless  if  the  non-intelligent  and  good  are  at 
the  same  time  the  victims,  nobly  enduring,  of 
undeserved  misfortune. 

Evening. 

A  really  remarkable  thing  happened  to-day : 
I've  had  a  prayer  answered.  I  shall  never 
dare  pray  again.  I  prayed  for  a  man,  any 
man,  to  come  and  leaven  us,  and  I've  got  him. 

Let  me  set  it  down  in  order. 

This  afternoon  on  our  walk,  soon  after 
we  had  left  the  house  and  were  struggling 
along  against  gusts  of  wind  and  whirling 
leaves  in  the  direction,  as  it  happened,  of 
the  carriage  road  up  from  the  valley,  Dolly 
said,  "Who  is  that  funny  little  man  coining 
toward  us?" 

And  I  looked,  and  said  after  a  moment  in 
which  my  heart  stood  still — for  what  had 
he  come  for?—  ''That  funny  little  man  is 
my  uncle." 

There  he  was,  the  authentic  uncle:  gaiters, 
apron,  shovel  hat.  He  was  holding  on  his 
hat,  and  the  rude  wind,  thwarted  in  its 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  229 

desire  to  frolic  with  it,  frisked  instead  about 
his  apron,  twitching  it  up,  bellying  it  out; 
so  that  his  remaining  hand  had  all  it  could 
do  to  smooth  the  apron  down  again  decor- 
ously, and  he  was  obliged  to  carry  his  um- 
brella pressed  tightly  against  his  side  under 
his  arm. 

"Not  your  uncle  the  Dean?"  asked  Mrs. 
Barnes  in  a  voice  of  awe,  hastily  arranging 
her  toque;  for  a  whiff  of  the  Church,  any 
whiff,  even  one  so  faint  as  a  curate,  is  as 
the  breath  of  life  to  her. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  amazed  and  helpless.  "My 
Uncle  Rudolph." 

"Why,  he  might  be  a  German,"  said 
Dolly,  "with  a  name  like  that." 

"Oh,  but  don't  say  so  to  him!"  I  cried. 
"He  has  a  perfect  horror  of  Germans — 

And  it  was  out  before  I  remembered, 
before  I  could  stop  it.  Good  heavens,  I 
thought;  good  heavens. 

I  looked  sideways  at  Mrs.  Barnes.  She 
was,  I  am  afraid,  very  red.  So  I  plunged 
in  again,  eager  to  reassure  her.  "That  is 
to  say,"  I  said,  "he  used  to  have  during  the 
war.  But  of  course  now  that  the  war  is 
over  it  would  be  mere  silliness — nobody 
minds  now— nobody  ought  to  mind  now— 


230  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

My  voice,  however,  trailed  out  into  silence, 
for  I  knew,  and  Mrs.  Barnes  knew,  that 
people  do  mind. 

By  this  time  we  were  within  hail  of  my 
uncle  and  with  that  joy  one  instinctively 
assumes  on  such  occasions  I  waved  my 
stick  in  exultant  circles  at  him  and  called 
out,  "How  very  delightful  of  you,  Uncle 
Rudolph!"  And  I  advanced  to  greet  him, 
the  others  tactfully  dropping  behind,  alone. 

There  on  the  mountain  side,  with  the  rude 
wind  whisking  his  clothes  irreverently  about, 
we  kissed;  and  in  my  uncle's  kiss  I  instantly 
perceived  something  of  the  quality  of  Mrs. 
Barnes's  speeches  the  day  I  smoked  the 
twelve  cigarettes — he  was  forgiving  me. 

"I  have  come  to  escort  you  home  to 
England,"  he  said,  his  face  spread  over 
with  the  spirit  of  allowing  byegones  to  be 
byegones;  and  in  that  spirit  he  let  go  of 
his  apron  in  order  reassuringly  to  pat  my 
shoulder.  Immediately  the  apron  bellied. 
His  hand  had  abruptly  to  leave  my  shoulder 
so  as  to  clutch  it  down  again.  'You  are 
with  ladies?"  he  said  a  little  distractedly, 
holding  on  to  this  turbulent  portion  of  his 
clothing. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  replied,  modestly. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  231 

"I  hope  you  didn't  expect  to  find  me  with 
gentlemen?" 

"I  expected  to  find  you,  dear  child,  as 
I  have  always  found  you — ready  to  admit 
and  retrace.  Generously  ready  to  admit 
and  retrace." 

"Sweet  of  you,"  I  murmured.  "But  you 
should  have  let  me  know  you  were  coming. 
I'd  have  had  things  killed  for  you.  Fatted 
things." 

"It  is  not  I,"  he  said,  in  as  gentle  a  voice 
as  he  could  manage,  the  wind  being  what 
it  was,  "who  am  the  returning  prodigal. 
Indeed  I  wish  for  your  sake  that  I  were. 
My  shoulders  could  bear  the  burden  better 
than  those  little  ones  of  yours." 

This  talk  was  ominous,  so  I  said,  "I  must 
introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Barnes  and  her  sister 
Mrs.  Jewks.  Let  me  present,"  I  said,  cere- 
moniously, turning  to  them  who  were  now 
fortunately  near  enough,  "my  Uncle  Rudolph 
to  you,  of  whom  you  have  often  heard  me 
speak." 

"Indeed  we  have,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  with 
as  extreme  a  cordiality  as  awe  permitted. 

My  uncle,  obviously  relieved  to  find  his 
niece  not  eccentrically  alone  but  flanked  by 
figures  so  respectable,  securely,  as  it  were, 


232  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

embedded  in  widows,  was  very  gracious.  Mrs. 
Barnes  received  his  pleasant  speeches  with 
delighted  reverence;  and  as  we  went  back  to 
the  house,  for  the  first  thing  to  do  with  arrivals 
from  England  is  to  give  them  a  bath,  he  and 
she  fell  naturally  into  each  other's  company 
along  the  narrow  track,  and  Dolly  and  I 
followed  behind. 

We  looked  at  each  other  simultaneously, 
perceiving  the  advantages  of  four  rather 
than  of  three.  Behind  Mrs.  Barnes's  absorbed 
and  obsequious  back  we  looked  at  each  other 
with  visions  in  our  eyes  of  unsupervised  talks 
opening  before  us. 

:'They  have  their  uses,  you  see,"  I  said 
in  a  low  voice — not  that  I  need  have  lowered 
it  in  that  wind. 

"Deans  have,"  agreed  Dolly,  nodding. 

And  my  desire  to  laugh — discreetly,  under 
my  breath,  ready  to  pull  my  face  sober 
and  be  gazing  at  the  clouds  the  minute  our 
relations  should  turn  round,  was  strangled 
by  the  chill  conviction  that  my  uncle's  coming 
means  painful  things  for  me. 

He  is  going  to  talk  to  me;  talk  about 
what  I  am  trying  so  hard  not  to  think  of, 
what  I  really  am  succeeding  in  not  thinking 
of;  and  he  is  going  to  approach  the  deso- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  233 

lating  subject  in,  as  he  will  say  and  perhaps 
even  persuade  himself  to  believe,  a  Christian 
spirit,  but  in  what  really  is  a  spirit  of  sheer 
worldliness.  He  has  well-founded  hopes  of 
soon  going  to  be  a  bishop.  I  am  his  niece. 
The  womenkind  of  bishops  should  be  incon- 
spicuous, should  see  to  it  that  comment 
cannot  touch  them.  Therefore  he  is  going 
to  try  to  get  me  to  deliver  myself  up  to  a 
life  of  impossible  wretchedness  again,  only 
that  the  outside  of  it  may  look  in  order. 
The  outside  of  the  house — of  the  house  of 
a  bishop's  niece — at  all  costs  keep  it  neat, 
keep  it  looking  like  all  the  others  in  the 
street;  so  shall  nobody  know  what  is  going 
on  inside,  and  the  neighbours  won't  talk 
about  one's  uncle. 

If  I  were  no  relation  but  just  a  mere,  ordinary 
stranger-soul  in  difficulties,  he,  this  very  same 
man,  would  be  full  of  understanding,  would 
find  himself  unable,  indeed,  the  facts  being 
what  they  are,  to  be  anything  but  most  earn- 
estly concerned  to  help  me  keep  clear  of  all 
temptations  to  do  what  he  calls  retrace. 
And  at  the  same  time  he  would  be  con- 
cerned also  to  strengthen  me  in  that  mood 
which  is  I  am  sure  the  right  one,  and  does 
very  often  recur,  of  being  entirely  without 


234  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

resentment  and  so  glad  to  have  the  remem- 
brance at  least  of  the  beautiful  things  I 
believed  in.  But  I  am  his  niece.  He  is 
about  to  become  a  bishop.  Naturally  he  has 
to  be  careful  not  to  be  too  much  like  Christ. 

Accordingly,  I  followed  uneasily  in  his 
footsteps  toward  the  house,  dreading  what 
was  going  to  happen  next.  And  nothing 
has  happened  next.  Not  yet,  anyhow.  I 
expect  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

We  spent  a  most  bland  evening.  I'm 
as  sleepy  and  as  much  satiated  by  ecclesias- 
tical good  things  as  though  I  had  been  the 
whole  day  in  church.  My  uncle,  washed, 
shaven,  and  restored  by  tea,  laid  himself 
out  to  entertain.  He  was  the  decorous  life 
of  the  party.  He  let  himself  go  to  that 
tempered  exuberance  with  which  good  men 
of  his  calling  like  to  prove  that  they  really 
are  not  so  very  much  different  from  other 
people  after  all.  Round  the  hall  fire  we 
sat  after  tea,  and  again  after  supper,  Dolly 
and  I  facing  each  other  at  the  corners,  my 
uncle  and  Mrs.  Barnes  in  the  middle,  and 
the  room  gently  echoed  with  seemly  and 
strictly  wholesome  rnirth.  "How  enjoyable," 
my  uncle  seemed  to  say,  looking  at  us  at  the 
end  of  each  of  his  good  stories,  gathering  in 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  235 

the  harvest  of  our  appreciation,  "how  enjoy- 
able is  the  indulgence  of  legitimate  fun.  Why 
need  one  ever  indulge  in  illegitimacy?" 

And  indeed  his  stories  were  so  very  good 
that  every  one  of  them,  before  they  reached 
the  point  of  bringing  forth  their  joke,  must 
have  been  to  church  and  got  married. 

Dolly  sat  knitting,  the  light  shining  on 
her  infantile  fair  hair,  her  eyes  downcast  in 
a  dove-like  meekness.  Punctually  her  dimple 
flickered  out  at  the  right  moment  in  each 
anecdote.  She  appeared  to  know  by  in- 
stinct where  to  smile;  and  several  times  I 
was  only  aware  that  the  moment  had  come  by 
happening  to  notice  her  dimple. 

As  for  Mrs.  Barnes,  for  the  first  time  since 
I  have  known  her,  her  face  was  cloudless. 
My  uncle  embarked  on  anecdote,  did  not 
mention  the  war.  We  did  not  once  get  on 
to  Germans.  Mrs.  Barnes  could  give  herself 
up  to  real  enjoyment.  She  beamed.  She 
was  suffused  with  reverential  delight.  And 
her  whole  body,  the  very  way  she  sat  in  her 
chair,  showed  an  absorption,  an  eagerness 
not  to  miss  a  crumb  of  my  uncle's  talk, 
that  would  have  been  very  gratifying  to 
him  if  he  were  not  used  to  just  this.  It  is 
strange  how  widows  cling  to  clergymen. 


236  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Ever  since  I  can  remember,  like  the  afflicted 
Margaret's  apprehensions  in  Wordsworth's 
poem,  they  have  come  to  Uncle  Rudolph  in 
crowds.  My  aunt  used  to  raise  her  eye- 
brows and  ask  me  if  I  could  at  all  tell  her 
what  they  saw  in  him. 

When  we  bade  each  other  good -night  there 
was  something  in  Mrs.  Barnes's  manner  to 
me  that  showed  me  the  presence  of  a  man 
was  already  doing  its  work.  She  was  aerated. 
Fresh  air  had  got  into  her  and  was  circulating 
freely.  At  my  bedroom  door  she  embraced 
me  with  warm  and  simple  heartiness,  without 
the  usual  painful  search  of  my  face  to  see  if 
by  any  chance  there  was  anything  she  had  left 
undone  in  her  duty  of  being  unselfish.  My 
uncle's  arrival  has  got  her  thoughts  off  me 
for  a  bit.  I  knew  that  what  we  wanted  was  a 
man.  Not  that  a  dean  is  quite  my  idea  of  a 
man,  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  neither  is  he 
quite  my  idea  of  a  woman,  and  his  arrival  does 
put  an  end  for  the  moment  to  Mrs.  Barnes's 
and  my  dreadful  combats  de  generosite.  He  in- 
fuses fresh  blood  into  our  anaemic  little 
circle.  Different  blood,  perhaps  I  should 
rather  say;  the  blood  of  deans  not  being, 
I  think,  ever  very  fresh. 

"Good-night,     Uncle    Rudolph,"     I     said, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  237 

getting  up  at  ten  o'clock  and  holding  up 
my  face  to  him.  "We  have  to  thank  you 
for  a  delightful  evening." 

"Most  delightful,"  echoed  Mrs.  Barnes, 
enthusiastically,  getting  up,  too,  and  rolling 
up  her  knitting. 

My  uncle  was  gratified.  He  felt  he  had 
been  at  his  best,  and  that  his  best  had  been 
appreciated. 

"Good-night,  dear  child,"  he  said,  kissing 
my  offered  cheek.  "May  the  blessed  angels 
watch  about  your  bed." 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  said, 
bowing  my  head  beneath  this  benediction. 

Mrs.  Barnes  looked  on  at  the  little  domestic 
scene  with  reverential  sympathy.  Then  her 
turn  came. 

"  Goorf-night,  Mrs.  Barnes,"  said  my  uncle 
most  graciously,  shaking  hands  and  doing 
what  my  dancing  mistress  used  to  call  bend- 
ing from  the  waist. 

And  to  Dolly,  "  GW-night,  Miss- 
Then  he  hesitated,  groping  for  the  name. 

"Mrs,"  said  Dolly,  sweetly  correcting  him, 
her  hand  in  his. 

"Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Married.  These 
introductions — especially  in  that  noisy  wind." 

"No — not    exactly    married,"    said    Dolly » 


238  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

still  sweetly  correcting  him,  her  hand  still  in 
his. 

"Not  exactly ?" 

"My  sister  has  lost  her — my  sister  is  a 
widow,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes,  hastily  and  ner- 
vously; alas,  these  complications  of  Dolly's! 

"Indeed.  Indeed.  Sad,  sad,"  said  my 
uncle,  sympathetically,  continuing  to  hold 
her  hand.  "And  so  young.  Ah.  Yes.  Well, 
good  night  then,  Mrs.— 

But  again  he  had  to  pause  and  grope. 

"Jewks,"  said  Dolly,  sweetly. 

"Forgive  me.  You  may  depend  I  shall 
not  again  be  so  stupid.  Good-night.  And 
may  the  blessed  angels— 

A  third  time  he  stopped;  pulled  up,  I 
suppose,  by  the  thought  that  it  was  perhaps 
not  quite  seemly  to  draw  the  attention  of 
even  the  angels  to  an  unrelated  lady's  bed. 
So  he  merely  very  warmly  shook  her  hand, 
while  she  smiled  a  really  heavenly  smile  at 
him. 

We  left  him  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  watching  us  go  up  the  stairs,  holding 
almost  tenderly,  for  one  must  expend  one's 
sympathy  on  something,  a  glass  of  hot  water. 

My  uncle  is  very  sympathetic.  In  matters 
that  do  not  touch  his  own  advancement  he 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  239 

is  all  sympathy.  That  is  why  widows  like 
him,  I  expect.  My  aunt  would  have  known 
the  reason  if  she  hadn't  been  his  wife. 

October  1st. 

While  I  dress  it  is  my  habit  to  read.  Some 
book  is  propped  up  open  against  the  looking- 
glass,  and  sometimes,  for  one's  eyes  can't  be 
everywhere  at  once,  my  hooks  in  conse- 
quence don't  get  quite  satisfactorily  fastened. 
Indeed  I  would  be  very  neat  if  I  could, 
but  there  are  other  things.  This  morning 
the  book  was  the  Bible,  and  in  it  I  read, 
A  prudent  man — how  much  more  prudently, 
then,  a  woman — foreseeth  tJie  evil  and  hidetli 
himself,  but  tlie  simple  pass  on  and  are 
punished. 

This  made  me  late  for  breakfast.  I  sat 
looking  out  of  the  window,  my  hands  in 
my  lap,  the  sensible  words  of  Solomon  ring- 
ing in  my  ears,  and  considered  if  there  was 
any  way  of  escaping  the  fate  of  the  simple. 

There  was  no  way.  It  seemed  hard  that 
without  being  exactly  of  the  simple  I  yet 
should  be  doomed  to  their  fate.  And  out- 
side it  was  one  of  those  cold  windy  mornings 
when  male  relations  insist  on  taking  one 
for  what  they  call  a  run — as  if  one  were  a 


240  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

dog — in  order  to  go  through  the  bleak  proc- 
ess they  describe  as  getting  one's  cobwebs 
blown  off.  I  can't  bear  being  parted  from 
my  cobwebs.  I  never  want  them  blown  off. 
Uncle  Rudolph  is  small  and  active,  besides 
having  since  my  aunt's  death  considerably 
dwindled  beneath  his  apron,  and  I  felt  sure 
he  intended  to  run  me  up  the  mountain  after 
breakfast,  and,  having  got  me  breathless  and 
speechless  on  to  some  cold  rock,  sit  with  me 
there  and  say  all  the  things  I  am  dreading 
having  to  hear. 

It  was  quite  difficult  to  get  myself  to  go 
downstairs.  I  seemed  rooted.  I  knew  that, 
seeing  that  I  am  that  unfortunately  situated 
person  the  hostess,  my  duty  lay  in  morning 
smiles  behind  the  coffee  pot;  but  the  con- 
viction of  what  was  going  to  happen  to  me 
after  the  coffee  pot  kept  me  rooted,  even 
when  the  bell  had  rung  twice. 

When,  however,  after  the  second  ringing 
quick  footsteps  pattered  along  the  passage  to 
my  door  I  did  get  up — jumped  up,  afraid  of 
what  might  be  coming  in.  Bedrooms  are 
no  real  protection  from  uncles.  Those  quick 
footsteps  might  easily  be  Uncle  Rudolph's. 
I  hurried  across  to  the  door  and  pulled  it 
open,  so  that  at  least  by  coming  out  I  might 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  241 

stop    his    coming    in;    and    there    was     Mrs. 
Antoine,  her  hand  lifted  up  to  knock. 

"Ces  dames  et  Monsieur  VEveque  alien- 
dent,'"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  reproachful 
surprise. 

"//  n'est  pas  un  eveque"  I  replied  a  little 
irritably,  for  I  knew  I  was  in  the  wrong 
staying  upstairs  like  that,  and  naturally 
resented  not  being  allowed  to  be  in  the  wrong 
in  peace.  "//  est  seulement  presque  un." 

Mrs.  Antoine  said  nothing  to  that,  but 
stepping  aside  to  let  me  pass  informed  me 
rather  severely  that  the  coffee  had  been  on 
the  table  a  whole  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"Comment  appelle-t-on  chez  vous"  I  said, 
lingering  in  the  doorway  to  gain  time,  "  cc 
qui  rient  devant  un  eveque?" 

" Ce  qui  merit  devant  un  eveque?"  repeated 
Mrs.  Antoine,  doubtfully. 

"Old.  Uespece  de  monsieur  qui  nest  pas 
tout  a  fait  ereque  mais  presque?" 

Mrs.  Antoine  knit  her  brows.    "  Mafoi— 
she  began. 

"Oh,  fai  oublic"  I  said.  "Vous  netcs 
plus  catholique.  11  n'y  a  rien  comme  dcs 
creques  et  comme  les  messieurs  qui  sont  presque 
creques  dans  votre  eglise  protestanle,  nest-ce 
pas?" 


242  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"Mais  rien,  rien,  rien,"  asseverated  Mrs. 
Antoine,  vehemently,  her  hands  spread  out, 
her  shoulders  up  to  her  ears,  passionately 
protesting  the  empty  purity  of  her  adopted 
church—  "mais  rien  du  tout,  du  tout.  Ma- 
dame pent  venir  un  dimanche  voir " 

Then,  having  cleared  off  these  imputations, 
she  switched  back  to  the  coffee.  "Le  cafe — 
Madame  desire  que  fen  fasse  encore  ?  Ces 
dames  et  Monsieur  VEreque— 

"II  nest  pas  un  ev — 

"Ah — here  you  are!"  exclaimed  my  uncle, 
his  head  appearing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
"I  was  just  coming  to  see  if  there  was  any- 
thing the  matter.  Here  she  is — coming, 
coming!"  he  called  out,  genially,  to  the  others; 
and  on  my  hurrying  to  join  him,  for  I  am  not 
one  to  struggle  against  the  inevitable,  he  put 
his  arm  through  mine  and  we  went  down  to- 
gether. 

Having  got  me  to  the  bottom  he  placed  both 
hands  on  my  shoulders  and  twisted  me  round 
to  the  light.  "Dear  child,"  he  said,  scruti- 
nizing my  face  while  he  held  me  firmly  in  this 
position,  "we  were  getting  quite  anxious  about 
you.  Mrs.  Barnes  feared  you  might  be  ill, 
and  was  already  contemplating  remedies— 
I  shuddered — "however — "  he  twisted  me 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  243 

round  to  Mrs.  Barnes—  •"  nothing  ill  about  this 
little  lady,  Mrs.  Barnes,  eh?" 

Then  he  took  my  chin  between  his  finger 
and  thumb  and  kissed  me  lightly,  gaily  even, 
on  each  cheek,  and  then,  letting  me  go,  he 
rubbed  his  hands  and  briskly  approached  the 
table,  all  the  warm  things  on  which  were 
swathed  as  usual  when  I  am  late  either  in 
napkins  or  in  portions  of  Mrs.  Barnes's 
clothing. 

"Come  along — come  along,  now — break- 
fast, breakfast,"  cried  my  uncle.  "For  these 
and  all  Thy  mercies  Lord—  he  continued 

with  hardly  a  break,  his  eyes  shut,  his  hands 
outspread  over  Mrs.  Barnes's  white  woollen 
shawl  in  benediction. 

We  were  overwhelmed.  The  male  had 
arrived  and  taken  us  in  hand.  But  we  were 
happily  overwhelmed,  judging  from  Mrs. 
Barnes's  face.  For  the  first  time  since  she 
has  been  with  me  the  blessing  of  heaven  had 
been  implored  and  presumably  obtained  for 
her  egg,  and  I  realized  from  her  expression  as 
she  ate  it  how  much  she  had  felt  the  daily  en- 
forced consumption,  owing  to  my  graceless 
habits,  of  eggs  unsanctified.  And  Dolly,  too, 
looked  pleased,  as  she  always  does  when  her 
poor  Kitty  is  happy.  I  alone  wasn't.  Be- 


244  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

hind  the  coffee  pot  I  sat  pensive.  I  knew  too 
well  what  was  before  me.  I  distrusted  my 
uncle's  gaiety.  He  had  thought  it  all  out 
in  the  night,  and  had  decided  that  the  best  line 
of  approach  to  the  painful  subject  he  had  come 
to  discuss  would  be  one  of  cheerful  affection. 
Certainly  I  had  never  seen  him  in  such  spirits; 
but  then  I  haven't  seen  him  since  my  aunt's 
death. 

"Dear  child,"  he  said,  when  the  table  had 
been  picked  up  and  carried  off  bodily  by 
the  Antoines  from  our  midst,  leaving  us 
sitting  round  nothing  with  the  surprised 
feeling  of  sudden  nakedness  that,  as  I  have 
already  explained,  this  way  of  clearing  away 
produces — my  uncle  was  actually  surprised 
for  a  moment  into  silence— "  dear  child,  I 
would  like  to  take  you  for  a  little  run  before 
lunch." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph?" 

'That  we  may  get  rid  of  our  cobwebs." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph." 

"I  know  you  are  a  quick-limbed  little 
lady- 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph?" 

"So  you  shall  take  the  edge  off  my  appetite 
for  exercise." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  245 

"Then  perhaps  this  afternoon  one  or  other 
of  these  ladies—  "I  noted  his  caution  in 
not  suggesting  both. 

"Oh,  delightful,"  Mrs.  Barnes  hastened  to 
assure  him.  "We  shall  be  only  too  pleased 
to  accompany  you.  We  are  great  walkers. 
We  think  a  very  great  deal  of  the  benefits 
to  be  derived  from  regular  exercise.  Our 
father  brought  us  up  to  a  keen  appreciation 
of  its  necessity.  If  it  were  not  that  we  so 
strongly  feel  that  the  greater  part  of  each 
day  should  be  employed  in  some  useful 
pursuit,  we  would  spend  it,  I  believe,  almost 
altogether  in  outdoor  exercise." 

"Why  not  go  with  my  uncle  this  morning, 
then?"  I  asked,  catching  at  a  straw.  "I've 
got  to  order  dinner— 

"Oh,  no,  no — not  on  any  account.  The 
Dean's  wishes— 

But  who  should  pass  through  the  hall  at 
that  moment,  making  for  the  small  room 
where  I  settle  my  household  affairs,  his 
arms  full  of  the  monthly  books,  but  Antoine. 
It  is  the  first  of  October.  Pay  day.  I  had 
forgotten.  And  for  this  one  morning,  at 
least,  I  knew  that  I  was  saved. 

"Look,"  I  said  to  Mrs.  Barnes,  nodding  in 
the  direction  of  Antoine  and  his  burden. 


246  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  felt  certain  she  would  have  all  the  ap- 
preciation of  the  solemnity,  the  undefera- 
bility,  of  settling  up  that  is  characteristic  of 
the  virtuous  poor;  she  would  understand 
that  even  the  wishes  of  deans  must  come 
second  to  this  holy  household  rite. 

"Oh,  how  unfortunate!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Just  this  day  of  all  days — your  uncle's  first 
day." 

But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  She 
saw  that.  And  besides,  never  was  a  woman 
so  obstinately  determined  as  I  was  to  do  my 
duty. 

"Dear  Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  said  very  amiably 
— I  did  suddenly  feel  very  amiable — "  I'm 
so  sorry.  This  is  the  one  day  in  the  month 
when  I  am  tethered.  Any  other  day— 

And  I  withdrew  with  every  appearance  of 
reluctant  but  indomitable  virtue  into  my 
little  room  and  stayed  there  shut  in  safe  till 
I  heard  them  go  out. 

From  the  window  I  could  see  them  pres- 
ently starting  off  up  the  mountain,  actively 
led  by  my  uncle  who  hadn't  succeeded  in 
taking  only  one,  Mrs.  Barnes  following  with 
the  devoutness — she  who  in  our  walks  goes 
always  first  and  chooses  the  way — of  an 
obedient  hen,  and  some  way  behind,  as 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  247 

though  she  disliked  having  to  shed  her  cob- 
webs as  much  as  I  do,  straggled  Dolly. 
Then,  when  they  had  dwindled  into  just 
black  specks  away  up  the  slope,  I  turned 
with  lively  pleasure  to  paying  the  books. 

Those  blessed  books!  If  only  I  could 
have  gone  on  paying  them  over  and  over 
again,  paying  them  all  day!  But  when  I 
had  done  them,  and  conversed  about  the  hens 
and  bees  and  cow  with  Antoine,  and  it  was 
getting  near  lunch-time,  and  at  any  moment 
through  the  window  I  might  see  the  three 
specks  that  had  dwindled  appearing  as  three 
specks  that  were  swelling,  I  thought  I  noticed 
I  had  a  headache. 

Addings-up  often  give  me  a  headache,  es- 
pecially when  they  won't,  which  they  cu- 
riously often  won't,  add  up  the  same  twice 
running,  so  that  it  was  quite  likely  that 
I  had  got  a  headache.  I  sat  waiting  to  be 
quite  sure,  and  presently,  just  as  the  three 
tiny  specks  appeared  on  the  sky  line,  I  was 
quite  sure;  and  I  came  up  here  and  put 
myself  to  bed.  For,  I  argued,  it  isn't  grape- 
stones  this  time,  it's  sums,  and  Mrs.  Barnes 
can't  dose  me  for  what  is  only  arithmetic; 
also,  even  if  Uncle  Rudolph  insists  on  com- 
ing to  my  bedside  he  can't  be  so  inhumane 


248  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

as    to    torment    somebody    who    isn't    very 
well. 

So  here  I  have  been  ever  since  snugly  in 
bed,  and  I  must  say  my  guests  have  been 
most  considerate.  They  have  left  me  almost 
altogether  alone.  Mrs.  Barnes  did  look  in 
once,  and  when  I  said,  closing  my  eyes,  "It's 
those  tradesmen's  books—  "  she  understood 
immediately,  and  simply  nodded  her  head 
and  disappeared. 

Dolly  came  and  sat  with  me  for  a  little, 
but  we  hadn't  said  much  before  Mrs.  Antoine 
brought  a  message  from  my  uncle  asking  her 
to  go  down  to  tea. 

" What  are  you  all  doing?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  just  sitting  round  the  fire  not  talking," 
she  said,  smiling. 

"Not  talking?"  I  said,  surprised. 

But  she  was  gone. 

Perhaps,  I  thought,  they're  not  talking  for 
fear  of  disturbing  me.  This  really  was  most 
considerate. 

As  for  Uncle  Rudolph,  he  hasn't  even  tried 
to  come  and  see  me.  The  only  sign  of  life 
he  has  made  was  to  send  me  the  current 
number  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  he  brought 
out  with  him,  in  which  he  has  an  article — a 
very  good  one.  Else  he,  too,  has  been  quite 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  249 

quiet;  and  I  have  read,  and  I  have  pondered, 
and  I  have  written  this,  and  now  it  really  is 
bedtime  and  I'm  going  to  sleep. 

Well,  a  whole  day  has  been  gained  anyhow, 
and  I  have  had  hours  and  hours  of  complete 
peace.  Rather  a  surprising  lot  of  peace, 
really.  It  is  rather  surprising,  I  think.  I 
mean,  that  they  haven't  wanted  to  come  and 
see  me  more.  Nobody  has  even  been  to  say 
good-night  to  me.  I  think  I  like  being  said 
good-night  to.  Especially  if  nobody  does 
say  it. 

October  %nd. 

Twenty-four  hours  sometimes  produce  re- 
markable changes.  These  have. 

Again  it  is  night,  and  again  I'm  in  my  room 
on  my  way  to  going  to  sleep;  but  before  I  get 
any  sleepier  I'll  write  what  I  can  about  to-day, 
because  it  has  been  an  extremely  interesting 
day.  I  knew  that  what  we  wanted  was  a  man. 

At  breakfast,  to  which  I  proceeded  punctu- 
ally, refreshed  by  my  retreat  yesterday,  armed 
from  head  to  foot  in  all  the  considerations 
I  had  collected  during  those  quiet  hours 
most  likely  to  make  me  immune  from  Uncle 
Rudolph's  inevitable  attacks,  having  said 
iny  prayers  and  emptied  my  mind  of  weaken- 


250  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

ing  memories,  I  found  my  three  guests  silent. 
Uncle  Rudolph's  talkativeness,  so  conspicuous 
at  yesterday's  breakfast,  was  confined  at 
to-day's  to  saying  grace.  Except  for  that, 
he  didn't  talk  at  all.  And  neither,  once 
having  said  her  Amen,  did  Mrs.  Barnes. 
Neither  did  Dolly,  but  then  she  never  does. 

"I've  not  got  a  headache,"  I  gently  said 
at  last,  looking  round  at  them. 

Perhaps  they  were  still  going  on  being  con- 
siderate, I  thought.  At  least,  perhaps  Mrs. 
Barnes  was.  My  uncle's  silence  was  merely 
ominous  of  what  I  was  in  for,  of  how  strongly, 
after  another  night's  thinking  it  out,  he  felt 
about  my  affairs  and  his  own  lamentable  con- 
nection with  them  owing  to  God's  having 
given  me  to  him  for  a  niece.  But  Mrs. 
Barnes — why  didn't  she  talk?  She  couldn't 
surely  intend,  because  once  I  had  a  headache, 
to  go  on  tip-toe  for  the  rest  of  our  days  to- 
gether? 

Nobody  having  taken  any  notice  of  my 
first  announcement  I  presently  said,  "I'm 
very  well,  indeed,  thank  you,  this  morning." 

At  this  Dolly  laughed,  and  her  eyes  sent 
little  morning  kisses  across  to  me.  She,  at 
least,  was  in  her  normal  state. 

"Aren't  you—    '  I  looked  at  the  other  two 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  251 

unresponsive  breakfasting  heads —  "aren't  you 
glad?" 

"Very,"  said  Mrs.  Barnes.  "Very."  But 
she  didn't  raise  her  eyes  from  her  egg,  and  my 
uncle  again  took  no  notice. 

So  then  I  thought  I  might  as  well  not  take 
any  notice  either,  and  I  ate  my  breakfast  in 
dignity  and  retirement,  occasionally  fortifying 
myself  against  what  awaited  me  after  it  by 
looking  at  Dolly's  restful  and  refreshing  face. 

Such  an  unclouded  face;  so  sweet,  so 
clean,  so  sunny  with  morning  graciousness. 
Really  an  ideal  breakfast-table  face.  For- 
tunate Juchs  and  Siegfried,  I  thought,  to 
have  had  it  to  look  forward  to  every  morning. 
That  they  were  undeserving  of  their  good 
fortune  I  patriotically  felt  sure,  as  I  sat 
considering  the  gentle  sweep  of  her  eyelashes 
while  she  buttered  her  toast.  Yet  they  did, 
both  of  them  make  her  happy;  or  perhaps 
it  was  that  she  made  them  happy,  and  caught 
her  own  happiness  back  again,  as  it  were  on 
the  rebound.  With  any  ordinarily  kind  and 
decent  husband  this  must  be  possible.  That 
she  had  been  happy  was  evident,  for  un- 
happiness  leaves  traces,  and  I've  never  seen 
an  object  quite  so  unmarked,  quite  so  can- 
did as  Dolly's  intelligent  and  charming  brow. 


252  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

We  finished  our  breakfast  in  silence;  and 
no  sooner  had  the  table  been  plucked  out 
from  our  midst  by  the  swift,  disconcerting 
Antoines,  than  my  uncle  got  up  and  went  to 
the  window. 

There  he  stood  with  his  back  to  us. 

"Do  you  feel  equal  to  a  walk?"  he  asked, 
not  turning  round. 

Profound  silence. 

\Ye  three,  still  sitting  round  the  blank  the 
vanished  table  had  left,  looked  at  each  other, 
our  eyes  inquiring  mutely,  "Is  it  I?" 

But  I  knew  it  was  me. 

"Do  you  mean  me,  Uncle  Rudolph?"  I 
therefore  asked;  for  after  all  it  had  best  be 
got  over  quickly. 

"Yes,  dear  child." 

"Now?" 

"If  you  will." 

"There's  no  esc—  you  don't  think  the 
weather  too  horrid?" 

"Bracing." 

I  sighed,  and  went  away  to  put  on  my 
nailed  boots. 

Relations  .  .  .  what  right  had  he 
as  though  I  hadn't  suffered  hor- 
ribly. .  .  and  on  such  an  unpleasant 
morning.  .  .  if  at  least  it  had  been  fine 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  253 

and  warm.  .  .  but  to  be  taken  up  a 
mountain  in  a  bitter  wind  so  as  to  be  made 
miserable  on  the  top. 

And  two  hours  later,  when  I  was  perched 
exactly  as  I  had  feared  on  a  cold  rock,  reached 
after  breathless  toil  in  a  searching  wind, 
perched  draughtily  and  shorn  of  every  cob- 
web I  could  ever  in  my  life  have  possessed, 
helplessly  exposed  to  the  dreaded  talking-to, 
Uncle  Rudolph,  settling  himself  at  my  feet, 
after  a  long  and  terrifying  silence  during 
which  I  tremblingly  went  over  my  defences 
in  the  vain  effort  to  assure  myself  that  per- 
haps I  wasn't  going  to  be  much  hurt,  said : 

"How  does  she  spell  it?" 

Really  one  is  very  fatuous.  Absorbed  in 
myself,  I  hadn't  thought  of  Dolly. 

October  3rd. 

It  was  so  late  last  night  when  I  got  to  that, 
that  I  went  to  bed.  Now  it  is  before  break- 
fast, and  I'll  finish  about  yesterday. 

Uncle  Rudolph  had  taken  me  up  the  moun- 
tain only  to  talk  of  Dolly.  Incredible  as  it 
may  seem,  he  has  fallen  in  love.  At  first 
sight.  At  sixty.  I  am  sure  a  woman  can't 
do  that,  so  that  this  by  itself  convinces  me  he 
is  a  man.  Three  days  ago  I  wrote  in  this  very 


254  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

book  that  a  dean  isn't  quite  my  idea  of  a 
man.     I  retract.     He  is. 

Well,  while  I  was  shrinking  and  shivering 
on  my  own  account,  waiting  for  him  to  begin 
digging  about  among  my  raw  places,  he  said 
instead,  "How  does  she  spell  it?"  and  threw 
my  thoughts  into  complete  confusion. 

Blankly  I  gazed  at  him  while  I  struggled 
to  rearrange  them  on  this  new  basis.  It  was 
such  an  entirely  unexpected  question.  I  did 
not  at  this  stage  dream  of  what  had  happened 
to  him.  It  never  would  have  occurred  to 
me  that  Dolly  would  have  so  immediate 
an  effect,  simply  by  sitting  there,  simply  by 
producing  her  dimple  at  the  right  moment. 
Attractive  as  she  is,  it  is  her  ways  rather  than 
her  looks  that  are  so  adorable;  and  what 
could  Uncle  Rudolph  have  seen  of  her  ways 
in  so  brief  a  time?  He  has  simply  fallen 
in  love  with  a  smile.  And  he  sixty.  And 
he  one's  uncle.  Amazing  Dolly;  irresistible; 
apparently,  to  uncles. 

"Do  you  mean   Mrs.   Jewks's  name?"    I 
asked,  when  I  was  able  to  speak. 
'Yes,"  said  my  uncle. 

"I  haven't  seen  it  written,"  I  said,  restored 
so  far  by  my  relief — for  Dolly  had  saved  me — 
that  I  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  hedge. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  255 

I  was  obliged  to  hedge.  In  my  mind's  eye 
I  saw  Mrs.  Barnes's  face  imploring  me. 

"No  doubt,"  said  my  uncle  after  another 
silence,  "it  is  spelt  on  the  same  principle  as 
Molyneux." 

"Very  likely,"  I  agreed. 

"It  sounds  as  though  her  late  husband's 
family  might  originally  have  been  French." 

"It  does  rather." 

'"Possibly  Huguenot." 

"Yes." 

"I  was  much  astonished  that  she  should  be  a 
widow." 

"  Yet  not  one  widow  but  two  widows  .  .  ." 
ran  at  this  like  a  refrain  in  my  mind,  perhaps 
because  I  was  sitting  so  close  to  a  dean. 
Aloud  I  said,  for  by  now  I  had  completely 
recovered,  "Why,  Uncle  Rudolph?  Widows 
do  abound." 

"Alas,  yes.  But  there  is  something  pecu- 
liarly virginal  about  Mrs.  Jcwks." 

I  admitted  that  this  was  so.  Part  of 
Dolly's  attractiveness  is  the  odd  impression 
she  gives  of  untouchedncss,  of  gay  aloofness. 

My  uncle  broke  off  a  stalk  of  the  withered 
last  summer's  grass  and  began  nibbling  it. 
He  was  lying  on  his  side  a  little  below  me, 
resting  on  his  elbow.  His  black,  neat  legs 


256  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

looked  quaint  stuck  through  the  long  yellow 
grass.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat,  hardy 
creature,  and  the  wind  blew  his  gray  hair 
this  way  and  that,  and  sometimes  flattened 
it  down  in  a  fringe  over  his  eyes.  When  this 
happened  he  didn't  look  a  bit  like  anybody 
good,  but  he  pushed  it  back  each  time, 
smoothing  it  down  again  with  an  abstracted 
carefulness,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  valley  far 
below.  He  wasn't  seeing  the  valley. 

"How  long  has  the  poor  young  thing- 
he  began. 

"You  will  be  surprised  to  hear,"  I  inter- 
rupted him,  "that  Mrs.  Jewks  is  forty." 

"Really,"  said  my  uncle,  staring  round  at 
me.  "Really.  That  is  indeed  surprising." 
And  after  a  pause  he  added,  "Surprising  and 
gratifying." 

"Why  gratifying,  Uncle  Rudolph?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"When  did  she  lose  her  husband?"  he 
asked,  taking  no  notice  of  my  inquiry. 

The  preliminary  to  an  accurate  answer  to 
this  question  was,  of  course,  Which?  But 
again  a  vision  of  Mrs.  Barnes's  imploring  face 
rose  before  me,  and  accordingly,  restricting 
myself  to  Juchs,  I  said  she  had  lost  him 
shortly  before  the  war. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  257 

"Ah.  So  he  was  prevented,  poor  fellow, 
from  having  the  honour  of  dying  for  England." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph." 

"  Poor  fellow.     Poor  fellow." 

"Yes." 

"Poor  fellow.  Well,  he  was  spared  know- 
ing what  he  had  missed.  At  least  he  was 
spared  that.  And  she — his  poor  wife — how 
did  she  take  it?" 

"Well,  I  think." 

:<Yes.  I  can  believe  it.  She  wouldn't — 
I  am  very  sure  she  wouldn't — intrude  her 
sorrows  selfishly  on  others." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  I  became  aware 
my  uncle  had  fallen  in  love.  Up  to  this, 
oddly  enough,  it  hadn't  dawned  on  me. 
Now  it  did  more  than  dawn,  it  blazed. 

I  looked  at  him  with  a  new  and  startled 
interest.  "Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  said,  impetu- 
ously, no  longer  a  distrustful  niece  talking  to 
an  uncle  she  suspects,  but  an  equal  with  an 
equal,  a  human  being  with  another  human 
being,  "haven't  you  ever  thought  of  marrying 
again?  It's  quite  a  long  time  now  since 
Aunt  Winifred— 

'Thought?"  said  my  uncle,  his  voice 
sounding  for  the  first  time  simply,  ordinarily 
human,  without  a  trace  in  it  of  the  fatal  pul- 


258  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

pit  flavour.  "Thought?  I'm  always  thinking 
of  it." 

And  except  for  his  apron  and  gaiters  he 
might  have  been  any  ordinary,  solitary  little 
man  eating  out  his  heart  for  a  mate. 

"But  then  why  don't  you?  Surely  a 
deanery  ot  all  places  wants  a  wife  in  it?" 

"Of  course  it  does.  Those  strings  of  rooms 
— empty,  echoing.  It  shouts  for  a  wife. 
Shouts,  I  tell  you.  At  least  mine  does. 
But  I've  never  found — I  hadn't  seen " 

He  broke  off,  biting  at  the  stalk  of  grass. 

"But  I  remember  you,"  I  went  on,  eagerly, 
"always  surrounded  by  flocks  of  devoted 
women.  Weren't  any  of  them—  — ?" 

"No,"  said  my  uncle  shortly.  And  after 
a  second  of  silence  he  said  again,  and  so  loud 
that  I  jumped,  "No!"  And  then  he  went  on 
even  more  violently,  "They  didn't  give  me 
a  chance.  They  never  let  me  alone  a  minute. 
After  Winifred's  death  they  were  like  flies. 
Stuck  to  me — made  me  sick — great  flies — 

crawling And  he  shuddered,  and  shook 

himself  as  though  he  were  shaking  off  the  lot 
of  them. 

I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "Why," 
I  cried,  "you're  talking  exactly  like  a 
man!" 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  259 

But  he,  staring  at  the  view  without  seeing 
an  inch  of  it,  took  no  heed  of  me,  and  I  heard 
him  say  under  his  breath,  as  though  I  hadn't 
been  there  at  all,  "My  God,  I'm  so  lonely  at 
night!" 

That  finished  it.  In  that  moment  I  began 
to  love  my  uncle.  At  this  authentic  cry  of 
forlornness  I  had  great  difficulty  in  not 
bending  over  and  putting  my  arms  round 
him — just  to  comfort  him,  just  to  keep  him 
warm.  It  must  be  a  dreadful  thing  to  be 
sixty  and  all  alone.  You  look  so  grown  up. 
You  look  as  though  you  must  have  so  many 
resources,  so  few  needs;  and  you  are  accepted 
as  provided  for,  what  with  your  career  ac- 
complished, and  your  houses  and  servants 
and  friends  and  books  and  all  the  rest  of  it- 
all  the  empty,  meaningless  rest  of  it  for  really 
you  are  the  most  miserable  of  motherless  cold 
babies,  conscious  that  you  are  motherless, 
conscious  that  nobody  soft  and  kind  and 
adoring  is  ever  again  coming  to  croon  over 
you  and  kiss  you  good-night  and  be  there 
next  morning  to  smile  when  you  wake  up. 

"Uncle  Rudolph—       '  I  began. 

Then  I  stopped,  and  bending  over  took  the 
stalk  of  grass  he  kept  on  biting  out  of  his 
hand. 


260  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"I  can't  let  you  eat  any  more  of  that,"  I 
said.  "It's  not  good  for  you." 

And  having  got  hold  of  his  hand  I  kept 
it. 

"There,  now,"  I  said,  holding  it  tight. 

He  looked  up  at  me  vaguely,  absorbed  in 
his  thoughts;  then,  realizing  how  tight  his 
hand  was  being  held,  he  smiled. 

:'You  dear  child,"  he  said,  scanning  my 
face  as  though  he  had  never  seen  it  before. 

;<Yes,"  I  said,  smiling  in  my  turn  and  not 
letting  go  of  his  hand.  "I  like  that.  I 
didn't  like  any  of  the  other  dear  children  I 
was." 

"Which  other  dear  children?" 

"Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  said,  "let's  go  home. 
This  is  a  bleak  place.  Why  do  we  sit  here 
shivering  forlornly  when  there's  all  that 
waiting  for  us  down  there?" 

And  loosing  his  hand  I  got  on  to  my  feet, 
and  when  I  was  on  them  I  held  out  both  my 
hands  to  him  and  pulled  him  up,  and  he 
standing  lower  than  where  I  was  our  eyes 
were  then  on  a  level. 

"All  what?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  searching 
mine. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Rudolph !  Warmth  and  Dolly, 
of  course." 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  261 

October  4>th. 

But  it  hasn't  been  quite  so  simple.  Noth- 
ing last  night  was  different.  My  uncle  re- 
mained tongue-tied.  Dolly  sat  waiting  to 
smile  at  anecdotes  that  he  never  told.  Mrs 
Barnes  knitted  uneasily,  already  fearing,  per- 
haps, because  of  his  strange  silence,  that 
he  somehow  may  have  scented  Siegfried, 
else  how  inexplicable  his  silence  after  that  one 
bright,  wonderful  first  evening  and  morning. 

It  was  I  last  night  who  did  the  talking,  it 
was  I  who  took  up  the  line,  abandoned  by 
my  uncle,  of  wholesome  entertainment.  I, 
too,  told  anecdotes;  and  when  I  had  told  all 
the  ones  I  knew  and  still  nobody  said  any- 
thing, I  began  to  tell  all  the  ones  I  didn't 
know.  Anything  rather  than  that  continued, 
uncomfortable  silence.  But  how  very  diffi- 
cult it  was.  I  grew  quite  damp  with  effort. 
And  nobody  except  Dolly  so  much  as  smiled; 
and  even  Dolly,  though  she  smiled,  especially 
when  I  embarked  on  my  second  series  of 
anecdotes,  looked  at  me  with  a  mild  inquiry, 
as  if  she  were  wondering  what  was  the  matter 
with  me. 

Wretched,  indeed,  is  the  hostess  upon 
whose  guests  has  fallen,  from  whatever  cause, 
a  blight. 


262  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

October  5th. 

Crabbe's  son,  in  the  life  he  wrote  of  his 
father,  asks:  "Will  it  seem  wonderful  when  we 
consider  how  lie  was  situated  at  this  time,  that 
with  a  most  affectionate  heart,  a  peculiar 
attachment  to  female  society,  and  with  unwasted 
passions,  Mr.  Crabbe,  though  in  his  sixty- 
second  year  should  have  again  thought  of 
marriage  ?  I  feel  satisfied  that  no  one  will  be 
seriously  shocked  with  such  an  evidence  of  the 
freshness  of  his  feelings." 

A  little  shocked;  Crabbe's  son  was  pre- 
pared to  allow  this  much;  but  not  seriously. 

Well,  it  is  a  good  thing  my  uncle  didn't  live 
at  that  period,  for  it  would  have  gone  hard 
with  him.  His  feelings  are  more  than  fresh, 
they  are  violent. 

October  6th. 

While  Dolly  is  in  the  room  Uncle  Rudolph 
never  moves,  but  sits  tongue-tied  staring  at 
her.  If  she  goes  away  he  at  once  gets  up  and 
takes  me  by  the  arm  and  walks  me  off  on  to 
the  terrace,  where  in  a  biting  wind  we  pace 
up  and  down. 

Our  positions  are  completely  reversed.  It  is 
I  now  who  am  the  wise  old  relative,  counsel- 
ling, encouraging,  listening  to  outpours.  Up 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  263 

and  down  we  pace,  up  and  down,  very  fast 
because  of  the  freshness  of  Uncle's  Rudolph's 
feelings  and  also  of  the  wind,  arm  in  arm, 
I  trying  to  keep  step,  he  not  bothering  about 
such  things  as  step,  absorbed  in  his  condition, 
his  hopes,  his  fears — especially  his  fears. 
For  he  is  terrified  lest,  having  at  last  found 
the  perfect  woman,  she  won't  have  him. 
"Why  should  she?"  he  asks,  almost  angrily, 
"Why  should  she?  Tell  me  why  she  should." 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  I  say,  for  Uncle  Rudolph 
and  I  are  now  the  frankest  friends.  "But 
I  can't  tell  you  either  why  she  shouldn't. 
Think  how  nice  you  are,  Uncle  Rudolph. 
And  Dolly  is  naturally  very  affectionate." 

"She  is  perfect,  perfect,"  vehemently  de- 
clares my  uncle. 

And  Mrs.  Barnes,  who  from  the  window 
watches  us  while  we  walk,  looks  with  anxious, 
questioning  eyes  at  my  face  when  we  come  in. 
What  can  my  uncle  have  to  talk  about  so 
eagerly  to  me  when  he  is  out  on  the  terrace, 
and  why  does  he  stare  in  such  stony  silence  at 
Dolly  when  he  comes  in?  Poor  Mrs.  Barnes. 

October  7th. 

The  difficulty  about  Dolly  for  courting 
purposes  is  that  she  is  never  to  be  got  alone, 


264  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

not  even  into  a  corner  out  of  earshot  of 
Mrs.  Barnes.  Mrs.  Barnes  doesn't  go  away 
for  a  moment,  except  together  with  Dolly. 
Wonderful  how  clever  she  is  at  it.  She  is 
obsessed  by  terror  lest  the  horrid  marriage 
to  the  German  uncle  should  somehow  be 
discovered.  If  she  was  afraid  of  my  knowing 
it  she  is  a  hundred  times  more  afraid  of 
Uncle  Rudolph's  knowing  it.  So  persistent 
is  her  humility,  so  great  and  remote  a  digni- 
tary does  he  seem  to  her,  that  the  real  situa- 
tion hasn't  even  glimmered  on  her.  All  she 
craves  is  to  keep  this  holy  and  distinguished 
man's  good  opinion,  to  protect  her  Dolly,  her 
darling  erring  one,  from  his  just  but  un- 
bearable contempt.  Therefore  she  doesn't 
budge.  Dolly  is  never  to  be  got  alone. 

"A  man,"  said  my  uncle  violently  to  me 
this  morning,  "can't  propose  to  a  woman 
before  her  sister." 

'You've  quite  decided  you're  going  to?" 
I  asked,  keeping  up  with  him  as  best  I  could, 
trotting  beside  him  up  and  down  the  terrace. 

"The  minute  I  can  catch  her  alone.  I 
can't  stand  any  more  of  this.  I  must  know. 
If  she  won't  have  me — my  God,  if  she  won't 
have  me —  — !" 

I  laid  hold  affectionately  of  his  arm.     "Oh, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  265 

but  she  will,"  I  said,  reassuringly.  "Dolly 
is  rather  a  creature  of  habit,  you  know." 

;' You  mean  she  has  got  used  to  marriage " 

"Well,  I  do  think  she  is  rather  used  to  it. 
Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  went  on,  hesitating  as  I 
have  hesitated  a  dozen  times  these  last  few 
days  as  to  whether  I  oughtn't  to  tell  him 
about  Juchs — Siegfried  would  be  a  shock, 
but  Juchs  would  be  crushing  unless  very 
carefully  explained— "you  don't  feel — you 
don't  think  you'd  like  to  know  something 
more  about  Dolly  first?  I  mean  before  you 
propose?" 

"No!"  shouted  my  uncle. 

Afterward  he  said  more  quietly  that  he 
could  see  through  a  brick  wall  as  well  as  most 
men,  and  that  Dolly  wasn't  a  brick  wall  but 
the  perfect  woman.  What  could  be  told 
him  that  he  didn't  see  for  himself?  Nothing, 
said  my  uncle. 

What  can  be  done  with  a  man  in  love? 
Nothing,  say  I. 

October  Sth, 

Sometimes  I  feel  very  angry  with  Dolly 
that  she  should  have  got  herself  so  tiresomely 
mixed  up  with  Germans.  How  simple  every- 
thing would  be  now  if  only  she  hadn't!  But 


266  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

when  I  am  calm  again  I  realize  that  she 
couldn't  help  it.  It  is  as  natural  to  her  to 
get  mixed  up  as  to  breathe.  ^  Very  sweet, 
affectionate  natures  are  always  getting  mixed 
up.  I  suppose  if  it  weren't  for  Mrs.  Barnes's 
constant  watchfulness  and  her  own  earnest 
desire  never  again  to  distress  poor  Kitty, 
she  would  at  an  early  stage  of  their  war 
wanderings  have  become  some  ardent  Swiss 
hotelkeeper's  wife.  Just  to  please  him;  just 
because  else  he  would  be  miserable.  Dolly 
ought  to  be  married.  It  is  the  only  certain 
way  of  saving  her  from  marriage. 

October  9th. 

It  is  snowing.  The  wind  howls,  and  the 
snow  whirls,  and  we  can't  go  out  and  so  get 
away  from  each  other.  Uncle  Rudolph  is 
obliged,  when  Dolly  isn't  there,  to  continue 
sitting  with  Mrs.  Barnes.  He  can't  to-day 
hurry  me  out  on  to  the  terrace.  There's  only 
the  hall  in  this  house  to  sit  in,  for  that  place 
I  pay  the  household  books  in  is  no  more  than 
a  cupboard. 

Uncle  Rudolph  could  just  bear  Mrs.  Barnes 
when  he  could  get  away  from  her;  to-day 
he  can't  bear  her  at  all.  Everything  that 
should  be  characteristic  of  a  dean — patience, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  267 

courtesy,  kindliness,  has  been  stripped  off 
him  by  his  eagerness  to  propose  and  the 
impossibility  of  doing  it.  There's  nothing 
at  all  left  now  of  what  he  was  but  that  empty 
symbol,  his  apron. 

October  Wth. 

My  uncle  is  fermenting  with  checked, 
prevented  courting.  And  he  ought  to  be 
back  in  England.  He  ought  to  have  gone 
back  almost  at  once,  he  says.  He  only  came 
out  for  three  or  four  days— 

;'Yes;  just  time  to  settle  me  in,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  smiling,  "and  then  take  you 
home  with  me  by  the  ear." 

He  has  some  very  important  meetings  he 
is  to  preside  at  coming  off  soon,  and  here  he  is, 
hung  up.  It  is  Mrs.  Barnes  who  is  the  cause 
of  it,  and  naturally  he  isn't  very  nice  to  her. 
In  vain  does  she  try  to  please  him;  the  one 
thing  he  wants  her  to  do,  to  go  away  and  leave 
him  with  Dolly,  she  of  course  doesn't.  She 
sits  there,  saying  meek  things  about  the 
weather,  expressing  a  modest  optimism,  ready 
to  relinquish  even  that  if  my  uncle  differs, 
becoming,  when  he  takes  up  a  book,  respect- 
fully quiet,  ready  the  moment  he  puts  it  down 
to  rejoice  with  him  if  he  wishes  to  rejoice  or 


268  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

weep  with  him  if  he  prefers  weeping;  and  the 
more  she  is  concerned  to  give  satisfaction  the 
less  well-disposed  is  he  toward  her.  He  can't 
forgive  her  inexplicable  fixedness.  Her  per- 
sistent, unintermittent  gregariousness  is  incom- 
prehensible to  him.  All  he  wants,  being  re- 
duced to  simplicity  by  love,  is  to  be  left  alone 
with  Dolly.  He  can't  understand,  being  a 
man,  why  if  he  wants  this  he  shouldn't  get  it. 

"You're  not  kind  to  Mrs.  Barnes,"  I  said 
to  him  this  afternoon.  'You've  made  her 
quite  unnatural.  She  is  cowed." 

"I  am  unable  to  like  her,"  said  my  uncle, 
shortly. 

;' You  are  quite  wrong  not  to.  She  has  had 
bitter  trouble,  and  is  all  goodness.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  met  anybody  so  completely 
unselfish." 

"I  wish  she  would  go  and  be  unselfish  in 
her  own  room,  then,"  said  my  uncle. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  I  said,  shrugging  my 
shoulders.  'You  arrived  here  dripping  unc- 
tion and  charitableness,  and  now— 

"Why  doesn't  she  give  me  a  chance?"  he 
cried.  "She  never  budges.  These  women  who 
stick,  who  can't  bear  to  be  by  themselves — good 
heavens,  hasn't  she  prayers  she  ought  to  be 
saying,  and  underclothes  she  ought  to  mend?" 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  269 

"I  don't  believe  you  care  so  very  much  for 
Dolly,  after  all,"  I  said,  "or  you  would  be 
kind  to  the  sister  she  is  so  deeply  devoted  to." 

This  sobered  him.  "I'll  try,"  said  my 
uncle;  and  it  was  quite  hard  not  to  laugh 
at  the  change  in  our  positions — I  the  gray- 
beard  now,  the  wise  rebuker,  he  the  hot- 
headed yet  well-intentioned  young  relative. 

October  \\th. 

I  think  guests  ought  to  like  each  other; 
love  each  other  if  they  prefer  it,  but  at  least 
like.  They,  too,  have  their  duties,  and  one 
of  them  is  to  resist  nourishing  aversions; 
or,  if  owing  to  their  implacable  dispositions 
they  can't  help  nourishing  them  oughtn't 
they  to  try  very  hard  not  to  show  it? 
They  should  consider  the  helpless  position 
of  the  hostess — she  who,  at  any  rate  theoreti- 
cally, is  bound  to  be  equally  attached  to 
them  all. 

Before  my  uncle  came  it  is  true  we  had 
begun  to  fester,  but  we  festered  nicely. 
Mrs.  Barnes  and  I  did  it  with  every  mark 
of  consideration  and  politeness.  We  were 
ladies.  Uncle  Rudolph  is  no  lady;  and  this 
little  house,  which  I  daresay  looks  a  picture 
of  peace  from  outside  with  the  snow  falling 


270  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

on  its  roof  and  the  firelight  shining  in  its 
windows,  seethes  with  elemental  passions. 
Fear,  love,  anger — they  all  dwell  in  it  now, 
all  brought  into  it  by  him,  all  coming  out  of 
the  mixture,  so  innocuous  one  would  think, 
so  likely,  one  would  think,  to  produce  only 
the  fruits  of  the  spirit — the  mixture  of  two 
widows  and  one  clergyman.  Wonderful  how 
much  can  be  accomplished  with  small  means. 
Also,  most  wonderful  the  centuries  that  seem 
to  separate  me  from  those  July  days  when  I 
lay  innocently  on  the  grass  watching  the  clouds 
pass  over  the  blue  of  the  delphinium  tops, 
before  ever  I  had  set  eyes  on  Mrs.  Barnes  and 
Dolly,  and  while  Uncle  Rudolph,  far  away  at 
home  and  not  even  beginning  to  think  of  a 
passport,  was  being  normal  in  his  Deanery. 

He  has,  I  am  sure,  done  what  he  promised, 
and  tried  to  be  kinder  to  Mrs.  Barnes,  and  I 
can  only  conclude  he  was  not  able  to  manage 
it,  for  I  see  no  difference.  He  glowers  and 
glowers,  and  she  immovably  knits.  And  in 
spite  of  the  silence  that  reigns  except  when, 
for  a  desperate  moment,  I  make  an  effort  to 
be  amusing,  there  is  a  curious  feeling  that  we 
are  really  living  in  a  state  of  muffled  uproar, 
in  a  constant  condition  of  barely  suppressed 
brawl.  I  feel  as  though  the  least  thing,  the 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  271 

least  touch,  even  somebody  coughing,  and 
the  house  will  blow  up.  I  catch  myself 
walking  carefully  across  the  hall  so  as  not  to 
shake  it,  not  to  knock  against  the  furniture. 
How  secure,  how  peaceful,  of  what  a  great 
and  splendid  simplicity  do  those  July  days, 
those  pre-guest  days,  seem  now! 

October  12th. 

I  went  into  Dolly's  bedroom  last  night, 
crept  in  on  tip-toe  because  there  is  a  door 
leading  from  it  into  Mrs.  Barnes's  room, 
caught  hold  firmly  of  her  wrist,  and  led  her, 
without  saying  a  word  and  taking  infinite 
care  to  move  quietly,  into  my  bedroom. 
Then,  having  shut  her  in,  I  said,  "What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

She  didn't  pretend  not  to  understand. 
The  candour  of  Dolly's  brow  is  an  exact 
reflection  of  the  candour  of  her  mind. 

"About  your  uncle,"  she  said,  nodding. 
"I  like  him  very  much." 

"Enough  to  marry  him?" 

"Oh,  quite.  I  always  like  people  enough  to 
marry  them."  And  she  added,  as  though  in 
explanation  of  this  perhaps  rather  excessively 
amiable  tendency,  "Husbands  are  so  kind." 

"You  ought  to  know,"  I  conceded. 


272  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"I  do,"  said  Dolly,  with  the  sweetest 
reminiscent  smile. 

"Uncle  Rudolph  is  only  waiting  to  get  you 
alone  to  propose,"  I  said. 

Dolly  nodded.  There  was  nothing  I  could 
tell  her  that  she  wasn't  already  aware  of. 

"As  you  appear  to  have  noticed  every- 
thing," I  said,  "I  suppose  you  have  also 
noticed  that  he  is  very  much  in  love  with 

you." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Dolly,  placidly. 

"So  much  in  love  that  he  doesn't  seem  even 
to  remember  that  he's  a  dignitary  of  the 
Church,  and  when  he's  alone  with  me  he 
behaves  in  a  way  I'm  sure  the  Church  wouldn't 
like  at  all.  Why,  he  almost  swears." 

"Isn't  it  a  good  thing,"  said  Dolly,  ap- 
provingly. 

"Yes.  But  now  what  is  to  be  done  about 
Siegfried— 

"Dear  Siegfried,"  murmured  Dolly. 

"And  Juchs- 

"Poor  darling,"  murmured  Dolly. 

'Yes,  yes.  But  oughtn't  Uncle  Rudolph 
to  be  told?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Dolly,  her  eyes  a  little 
surprised  that  I  should  want  to  know  any- 
thing so  obvious. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  273 

"You  told  me  it  would  kill  Kitty  if  I  knew 
about  Juchs.  It  will  kill  her  twice  as  much 
if  Uncle  Rudolph  knowTs." 

"  Kitty  won't  know  anything  about  it. 
At  least,  not  till  it's  all  over.  My  dear,  when 
it  comes  to  marrying  I  can't  be  stuck  all 
about  with  secrets." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  my  uncle  yourself?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Dolly,  again  with  surprise 
in  her  eyes. 

"When?" 

"When  he  asks  me  to  marry  him.  Till  he 
does  I  don't  quite  see  what  it  has  to  do  with 
him." 

"And  you're  not  afraid — you  don't  think 
your  second  marriage  will  be  a  great  shock  to 
him?  He  being  a  dean,  and  nourished  on 
Tables  of  Affinity?" 

"I  can't  help  it  if  it  is.  He  has  got  to 
know.  If  he  loves  me  enough  it  won't  matter 
to  him,  and  if  he  doesn't  love  me  enough  it 
won't  matter  to  him  cither." 

"Because  then  his  objections  to  Juchs 
would  be  greater  than  his  wish  to  marry  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dolly,  smiling.  "It  would 
mean,"  she  went  on,  "that  he  wasn't  fond  of 
me  enough." 

"And  you  wouldn't  mind?" 


274  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Her  eyes  widened  a  little.  "Why  should 
I  mind?" 

"No.  I  suppose  you  wouldn't,  as  you're 
not  in  love." 

I  then  remarked  that,  though  I  could 
understand  her  not  being  in  love  with  a  man 
my  uncle's  age,  it  was  my  belief  that  she  had 
never  in  her  life  been  in  love.  Not  even 
with  Siegfried.  Not  with  anybody. 

Dolly  said  she  hadn't,  and  that  she  liked 
people  much  too  much  to  want  to  grab  at 
them. 

"Grab  at  them!" 

"That's  what  your  being  in  love  does," 
said  Dolly,  "It  grabs." 

"But  you've  been  grabbed  yourself,  and 
you  liked  it.  Uncle  Rudolph  is  certainly 
bent  on  grabbing  you." 

"Yes.  But  the  man  gets  over  it  quicker. 
He  grabs  and  has  done  with  it,  and  then 
settles  down  to  the  real  things — affection 
and  kindness.  A  woman  hasn't  ever  done 
with  it.  She  can't  let  go.  And  the  poor 
thing,  because  she  what  you  call  loves,  is  so 
dreadfully  vulnerable,  and  gets  so  hurt,  so 
hurt- 
Dolly  began  kissing  me  and  stroking  my 
hair. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  275 

"I  think,  though,"  I  said,  while  she  was  do- 
ing this,  "I'd  rather  have  loved  thoroughly— 
you  can  call  it  grabbing  if  you  like,  I  don't 
care  what  ugly  words  you  use — and  been 
vulnerable  and  got  hurt,  than  never  once 
have  felt — than  just  be  a  sort  of  amiable 
amoeba — 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,"  interrupted 
Dolly,  continuing  to  kiss  me — her  cheek  was 
against  mine,  and  she  was  stroking  my  hair 
very  tenderly— "that  if  I  marry  that  dear 
little  uncle  of  yours  I  shall  be  your  aunt?" 

October  13th. 

Well,  then,  if  Dolly  is  ready  to  marry  my 
uncle  and  my  uncle  is  dying  to  marry  Dolly, 
all  that  remains  to  be  done  is  to  remove  Mrs. 
Barnes  for  an  hour  from  the  hall.  An  hour 
would  be  long  enough,  I  think,  to  include 
everything — five  minutes  for  the  proposal, 
fifteen  for  presenting  Siegfried,  thirty-five 
for  explaining  Juchs,  and  five  for  the  final 
happy  mutual  acceptances. 

This  very  morning  I  must  somehow  manage 
to  get  Mrs.  Barnes  away.  How  it  is  to  be 
done  1  can't  think;  especially  for  so  long 
as  an  hour.  Yet  Juchs  and  Siegfried  couldn't 
be  rendered  intelligible,  I  feel,  in  less  than 


276  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

fifty  minutes  between  them.  Yes;  it  will 
have  to  be  an  hour. 

I  have  tried  over  and  over  again  the  last 
few  days  to  lure  Mrs.  Barnes  out  of  the  hall, 
but  it  has  been  useless.  Is  it  possible  that 
I  shall  have  to  do  something  unpleasant  to 
myself,  hurt  myself,  hurt  something  that  takes 
time  to  bandage?  The  idea  is  repugnant  to 
me;  still,  things  can't  go  on  like  this. 

I  asked  Dolly  last  night  if  I  hadn't  better 
draw  Mrs.  Barnes's  attention  to  my  uncle's 
lovelorn  condition,  for  obviously  the  marriage 
would  be  a  solution  of  all  her  difficulties  and 
could  give  her  nothing  but  extraordinary  re- 
lief and  joy;  but  Dolly  wouldn't  let  me.  She 
said  that  it  would  only  agonize  poor  Kitty  to 
become  aware  that  my  uncle  was  in  love,  for 
she  would  be  quite  certain  that  the  moment  he 
heard  about  Juchs  horror  would  take  the 
place  of  love.  How  could  a  dean  of  the 
Church  of  England,  Kitty  would  say,  bring 
himself  to  take  as  wife  one  who  had  previously 
been  married  to  an  item  in  the  forbidden  list 
of  the  Tables  of  Affinity?  And  Juchs  being 
German  wrould  only,  she  would  feel,  make  it 
so  much  more  awful.  Besides,  said  Dolly, 
smiling  and  shaking  her  head,  my  uncle 
mightn't  propose  at  all.  He  might  change 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  277 

again.  I  myself  had  been  astonished,  she 
reminded  me,  at  the  sudden  violent  change 
he  had  already  undergone  from  unction  to 
very  nearly  swearing;  he  might  easily  under- 
go another  back  again,  and  then  what  a  pity 
to  have  disturbed  the  small  amount  of  peace 
of  mind  poor  Kitty  had. 

"She  hasn't  any,  ever,"  I  said;  impatiently, 
I'm  afraid. 

"Not  very  much,"  admitted  Dolly  with 
wistful  penitence.  "And  it  has  all  been  my 
fault." 

But  what  I  was  thinking  was  that  Kitty 
never  has  any  peace  of  mind  because  she 
hasn't  any  mind  to  have  peace  in. 

I  didn't  say  this,  however. 

I  practised  tact. 

Later. 

Well,  it  has  come  off.  Mrs.  Barnes  is  out 
of  the  hall,  and  at  this  very  moment  Uncle 
Rudolph  and  Dolly  are  alone  together  in  it, 
proposing  and  being  proposed  to.  He  is 
telling  her  that  he  worships  her,  and  in  reply 
she  is  gently  drawing  his  attention  to  Sieg- 
fried and  Juchs.  How  much  will  he  mind 
them?  Will  he  mind  them  at  all?  Will  his 
love  triumphantly  consume  them,  or,  having 


278  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

swallowed  Siegfried,  will  he  find  himself  un- 
able to  manage  Juchs? 

Oh,  I  love  people  to  be  happy!  I  love 
them  to  love  each  other!  I  do  hope  it  will 
be  all  right!  Dolly  may  say  what  she  likes, 
but  love  is  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that 
works  miracles.  Look  at  Uncle  Rudolph. 
I'm  more  doubtful,  though,  of  the  result  than 
I  would  have  been  yesterday,  because  what 
brought  about  Mrs.  Barnes's  absence  from 
the  hall  has  made  me  nervous  as  to  how  he 
will  face  the  disclosing  of  Juchs. 

While  I'm  waiting  I  may  as  well  write  it 
down — by  my  clock  I  count  up  that  Dolly 
must  be  a  third  of  the  way  through  Siegfried 
now,  so  that  I've  still  got  three  quarters  of 
an  hour. 

This  is  what  happened : 

The  morning  started  badly,  indeed  terribly. 
Dolly,  bored  by  being  stared  at  in  silence,  said 
something  about  more  wool  and  went  upstairs 
quite  soon  after  breakfast.  My  uncle,  casting 
a  despairing  glance  at  the  window  past  which 
the  snow  was  driving,  scowled  for  a  moment  or 
two  at  Mrs.  Barnes,  then  picked  up  a  stale 
Times  and  hid  himself  behind  it. 

To  make  up  for  his  really  dreadful  scowl 
at  Mrs.  Barnes  I  began  a  pleasant  conversa- 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  279 

tion  with  her,  but  at  once  she  checked  me, 
saying,  "Sh — sh,"  and  deferentially  indi- 
cating, with  her  knitting  needle,  my  read- 
ing uncle. 

Incensed  by  such  slavishness,  I  was  about 
to  rebel  and  insist  on  talking  when  he,  stirred 
apparently  by  something  of  a  bloodthirsty 
nature  that  he  saw  in  the  Times,  exclaimed 
in  a  very  loud  voice,  "Search  as  I  may — and 
I  have  searched  most  diligently — I  can't  find 
a  single  good  word  to  say  for  Germans." 

It  fell  like  a  bomb.  He  hasn't  mentioned 
Germans  once.  I  had  come  to  feel  quite  safe. 
The  shock  of  it  left  me  dumb.  Mrs.  Barnes's 
knitting  needles  stopped  as  if  struck.  I 
didn't  dare  look  at  her.  Dead  silence. 

My  uncle  lowered  the  paper  and  glanced 
round  at  us,  expecting  agreement,  impatient  of 
our  not  instantly  saying  we  thought  as  he  did. 

"Can  you  ?"  he  asked  me,  as  I  said  nothing, 
being  petrified. 

I  was  just  able  to  shake  my  head. 

"Can  you?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Barnes. 

Her  surprising  answer — surprising,  naturally, 
to  my  uncle — was  to  get  up  quickly,  drop  all  her 
wool  on  the  floor,  and  hurry  upstairs. 

He    watched    her    departure    with    amaze- 


280          IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

ment.     Still  with  amazement,  when  she  had 
disappeared,  his  eyes  sought  mine. 

"Why,"  he  said,  staring  at  me  aghast, 
"why — the  woman's  a  pro-German!" 

In  my  turn  I  stared  aghast. 

"Mrs.  Barnes  ?"  I  exclaimed,  stung  to  quite 
a  loud  exclamation  by  the  grossness  of  this  in- 
justice. 

"Yes,"  said  my  uncle,  horrified.  "Yes. 
Didn't  you  notice  her  expression?  Good 
heavens — and  I  who've  taken  care  not  to 
speak  to  a  pro-German  for  five  years,  and 
had  hoped,  God  willing,  never  to  speak  to 
one  again,  much  less —  '  he  banged  his  fists 
on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  and  the  Times  slid 
on  to  the  floor — "much  less  be  under  the 
same  roof  with  one." 

"Well,  then,  you  see,  God  wasn't  willing," 
I  said,  greatly  shocked. 

Here  was  the  ecclesiastic  coining  up  again 
with  a  vengeance  in  all  the  characteristic  anti- 
Christian  qualities;  and  I  was  so  much  stirred 
by  his  readiness  to  believe  what  he  thinks  is 
the  very  worst  of  poor,  distracted  Mrs.  Barnes 
that  I  flung  caution  to  the  winds  and  went 
indignantly  on:  "It  isn't  Mrs.  Barnes  who 
is  pro-German  in  this  house — it's  Dolly." 

"What?"  cried  my  uncle. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  281 

;' Yes,"  I  repeated,  nodding  my  head  at  him 
defiantly,  for  having  said  it  I  was  scared, 
"it's  Dolly." 

"Dolly?"  echoed  my  uncle,  grasping  the 
arms  of  his  chair. 

"Perhaps  pro-German  doesn't  quite  de- 
scribe it,"  I  hurried  on,  nervously,  "and  yet  I 
don't  know — I  think  it  would.  Perhaps  it's 
better  to  say  that  she  is — she  is  of  an  un- 
prejudiced international  spirit- 
Then  I  suddenly  realized  that  Mrs.  Barnes 
was  gone.  Driven  away.  Not  likely  to  ap- 
pear again  for  ages. 

I  got  up  quickly.  "Look  here,  Uncle 
Rudolph,"  I  said,  making  hastily,  even  as 
Mrs.  Barnes  had  made,  for  the  stairs,  "you 
ask  Dolly  about  it  yourself.  I'll  go  and  tell 
her  to  come  down.  You  ask  her  about  being 
pro-German.  She'll  tell  you.  Only—  '  I  ran 
back  to  him  and  lowered  my  voice—  "  propose 
first.  She  won't  tell  you  unless  you've  pro- 
posed first." 

Then,  as  he  sat  clutching  the  arms  of 
his  chair  and  staring  at  me,  I  bent  down 
and  whispered,  "Now's  your  chance,  Uncle 
Rudolph.  You've  settled  poor  Mrs.  Barnes 
for  a  bit.  She  won't  interrupt.  I'll  send 
Dolly — good-bye — good  luck!" 


282  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

And  hurriedly  kissing  him  I  hastened 
upstairs  to  Dolly's  room. 

Because  of  the  door  leading  out  of  it  into 
Mrs.  Barnes's  room  I  had  to  be  as  cautious 
as  I  was  last  night.  I  did  exactly  the  same 
things:  went  in  on  tip-toe,  took  hold  of  her 
firmly  by  the  wrist,  and  led  her  out  without 
a  word.  Then  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  point  to 
the  stairs,  and  at  the  same  time  make  a  face- 
but  a  kind  face,  I  hope — at  her  sister's  shut 
door,  and  the  intelligent  Dolly  did  the  rest. 

She  proceeded  with  a  sober  dignity  pleasant 
to  watch,  along  the  passage  in  order  to  be 
proposed  to.  Practice  in  being  proposed  to 
has  made  her  perfect.  At  the  top  of  the 
stairs  she  turned  and  smiled  at  me — her 
dimple  was  adorable.  I  waved  my  hand; 
she  disappeared;  and  here  I  am. 

Forty  minutes  of  the  hour  are  gone.  She 
must  be  in  the  very  middle  now  of  Juchs. 

Night. 

I  knew  this  little  house  was  made  for 
kindness  and  love.  I've  always,  since  first 
it  was  built,  had  the  feeling  that  it  was  blest. 
Sure  indeed  was  the  instinct  that  brought 
me  away  from  England,  doggedly  dragging 
myself  up  the  mountain  to  tumble  my  burdens 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  283 

down  in  this  place.  It  invariably  conquers. 
Nobody  can  resist  it.  Nobody  can  go  away 
from  here  quite  as  they  arrived,  unless  to 
start  with  they  were  of  those  blessed  ones 
who  wherever  they  go  carry  peace  with  them 
in  their  hearts.  From  the  first  I  have  felt 
that  the  worried  had  only  got  to  come  here 
to  be  smoothed  out,  and  the  lonely  to  be 
exhilarated,  and  the  unhappy  to  be  com- 
forted, and  the  old  to  be  made  young.  Now 
to  this  list  must  be  added:  and  the  widowed 
to  be  wedded;  because  all  is  well  with  Uncle 
Rudolph  and  Dolly,  and  the  house  once  more 
is  in  its  normal  state  of  having  no  one  in  it 
who  isn't  happy. 

For  I  grew  happy — completely  so  for  the 
moment,  and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  I  had 
really  done  now  with  the  other  thing — the 
minute  I  caught  sight  of  Uncle  Rudolph's 
face  when  I  went  downstairs. 

Dolly  was  sitting  by  the  fire  looking  pleased. 
My  uncle  was  standing  on  the  rug;  and  when  he 
saw  me  he  came  across  to  me  holding  out  both 
his  hands,  and  I  stopped  on  the  bottom  stair,  my 
hands  in  his,  and  we  looked  at  each  other  and 
laughed — sheer  happiness  we  laughed  for. 

Then  we  kissed  each  other,  I  still  on  the 
bottom  stair  and  therefore  level  with  him, 


284  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  then  he  said,  his  face  full  of  that  sweet 
affection  for  the  whole  world  that  radiates 
from  persons  in  his  situation,  "And  to  think 
that  I  came  here  only  to  scold  you!" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rudolph,"  I  said.  "To  think 
of  it!" 

"Well,  if  I  came  to  scold  I've  stayed  to 
love,"  he  said. 

"Which,"  said  I,  while  we  beamed  at  each 
other,  "as  the  Bible  says,  is  far  better." 

Then  Dolly  went  upstairs  to  tell  Mrs. 
Barnes — lovely  to  be  going  to  strike  off 
somebody's  troubles  with  a  single  sentence! 
— and  my  uncle  confessed  to  me  that  for  the 
first  time  a  doubt  of  Dolly  had  shadowed  his 
idea  of  her  when  I  left  him  sitting  there  while 
I  fetched  her. 

"Conceive  it — conceive  it!"  he  cried,  smit- 
ing his  hands  together,  "conceive  letting 
Germans — Germans,  if  you  please — get  even 
for  half  an  instant  between  her  and  me!" 

But  that  the  minute  he  saw  her  coming 
down  the  stairs  to  him  such  love  of  her  flooded 
him  that  he  got  up  and  proposed  to  her  before 
she  had  so  much  as  reached  the  bottom.  And 
it  was  from  the  stairs,  as  from  a  pulpit,  that 
Dolly,  supporting  herself  on  the  balustrade, 
expounded  Siegfried  and  Juchs. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  285 

She  wouldn't  come  down  till  she  had 
finished  with  them.  She  was,  I  gathered, 
ample  over  Siegfried,  but  when  it  came  to 
Juchs  she  was  profuse.  Every  single  aspect 
of  them  both  that  was  most  likely  to  make 
a  dean  think  it  impossible  to  marry  her  was 
pointed  out  and  enlarged  upon.  She  wouldn't, 
she  announced,  come  down  a  stair  farther 
till  my  uncle  was  in  full  possession  of  all  the 
facts  while  at  the  same  time  carefully  bearing 
in  mind  the  Table  of  Affinity. 

"And  were  you  terribly  surprised  and 
shocked,  Uncle  Rudolph?"  I  asked,  standing 
beside  him  with  our  backs  to  the  fire  in  our 
now  familiar  attitude  of  arm  in  arm. 

My  uncle  is  an  ugly  little  man,  yet  at  that 
moment  I  could  have  sworn  that  he  had  the 
face  of  an  angel.  He  looked  at  me  and 
smiled.  It  was  the  wonderfullest  smile. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  was,"  he  said.  "When 
she  had  done  I  just  said,  'My  Beloved' — and 
then  she  came  down." 

October  15th. 

This,  is  my  last  night  here,  and  this  is  the 
last  time  I  shall  write  in  my  old-age  book. 
To-morrow  we  all  go  away  together,  to 
Bern,  where  my  uncle  and  Dolly  will  be 


286  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

married,  and  then  he  takes  her  to  England, 
and  Mrs.  Barnes  and  I  will  also  proceed  there, 
discreetly,  by  another  route. 

So  are  the  wanderings  of  Mrs.  Barnes  and 
Dolly  ended,  and  Mrs.  Barnes  will  enter  into 
her  idea  of  perfect  bliss,  which  is  to  live  in  the 
very  bosorn  of  the  Church  with  a  cathedral 
almost  in  her  back  garden.  For  my  uncle, 
prepared  at  this  moment  to  love  anybody, 
also  loves  Mrs.  Barnes,  and  has  invited  her 
to  make  her  home  with  him.  At  this  moment 
indeed  he  wrould  invite  everybody  to  make 
their  homes  with  him,  for  not  only  has  he  in- 
vited me  but  I  heard  him  most  cordially  press- 
ing those  peculiarly  immovable  Antoines  to 
use  his  house  as  their  headquarters  whenever 
they  happen  to  be  in  England. 

I  think  a  tendency  to  invite  runs  in  the 
family,  for  I,  too,  have  been  busy  inviting. 
I  have  invited  Mrs.  Barnes  to  stay  with  me 
in  London  till  she  goes  to  the  Deanery,  and 
she  has  accepted.  Together  we  shall  travel 
thither,  and  together  we  shall  dwell  there, 
I  am  sure,  in  that  unity  which  is  praised 
by  the  Psalmist  as  a  good  and  pleasant 
thing. 

She  will  stay  with  me  for  the  weeks  during 
which  my  uncle  wishes  to  have  Dolly  all  to 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  287 

himself.  I  think  there  will  be  a  great  many 
of  those  weeks,  from  what  I  know  of  Dolly; 
but  being  with  a  happy  Mrs.  Barnes  will  be 
different  from  being  with  her  as  she  was  here. 
She  is  so  happy  that  she  consists  entirely  of 
unclouded  affection.  The  puckers  from  her 
face,  and  the  fears  and  concealments  from 
her  heart,  have  all  gone  together.  She  is  as 
simple  and  as  transparent  as  a  child.  She 
always  was  transparent,  but  without  know- 
ing it;  now  she  herself  has  pulled  off  her 
veils,  and  cordially  requests  one  to  look  her 
through  and  through  and  see  for  oneself  how 
there  is  nothing  there  but  contentment.  A 
little  happiness — what  wonders  it  works! 
Was  there  ever  anything  like  it? 

This  is  a  place  of  blessing,  When  I  came 
up  my  mountain  three  months  ago,  alone  and 
so  miserable,  no  vision  was  vouchsafed  me 
that  I  would  go  down  it  again  one  of  four 
people,  each  of  whom  would  leave  the  little 
house  full  of  renewed  life,  of  restored  hope, 
of  wholesome  looking-forward,  clarified,  set 
on  their  feet,  made  useful  once  more  to 
themselves  and  the  world.  After  all,  we're 
none  of  us  going  to  be  wasted.  Whatever 
there  is  of  good  in  any  of  us  isn't  after  all 
going  to  be  destroyed  by  circumstances  and 


288  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

thrown  aside  as  useless.  When  I  am  so 
foolish — if  I  am  so  foolish  I  should  say,  for  I 
feel  completely  cured! — as  to  begin  thinking 
backward  again  with  anything  but  a  benevo- 
lent calm,  I  shall  instantly,  come  out  here 
and  invite  the  most  wretched  of  my  friends 
to  join  me,  and  watch  them  and  myself  being 
made  whole. 

The  house,  I  think,  ought  to  be  re-christ- 
ened. 

It  ought  to  be  called  Chalet  du  Fleuve  Jor- 
dan. 

But  perhaps  my  guests  mightn't  like  that. 


THE   END 


THE   COUNTRY  LIFE   PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY,    N.  Y. 


A    001  447  939    8 


